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Not that it ever truly left. My accent never softened because I never spoke enough for it to. By the time I realised I still sounded like the country I hated, it was too late.

I can pass for British when I want to. It just takes conscious effort. Most days, I don’t think it’s worth pretending.

The irony is almost laughable. The moment I ran away, I walked straight into the hands of human traffickers. Ten-year- old boys are valuable cargo.

They shoved me onto a plane like livestock, celebrating their luck while I sat there wondering whether one cage was any different from another.

My only act of defiance was throwing up whatever they forced me to eat, while they answered with their fists.

Hitting was good, hitting was familiar. But it was why I fucking left in the first place.

I’d crossed a continent only to discover that violence spoke the same language everywhere.

Men who preyed on the weak never seemed to run out of excuses for calling themselves strong. And all I could think about was Mama.

Was she still with a man like Vasily? If she was…I had to find her.

I had to save her.

SIX

Elara

Ihate the sun, it’s bright and it’s irritating. I hate sunrises.

I hate waking up.

But I hate it the most right now, because it’s stabbing me in the eyes and not letting me sleep.

My body springs from the bed on instinct as I peel my eyes open and find myself in a place I don’t recognise.

The windows touch the ceilings—that explains the sun stabbing.

The room is bright, but not colourful. Everything lies in the shades of blue, grey, and black.

Nothing here gives me the slightest hint of whose house I’m in, except that it feels like it belongs to a man, not to sound sexist, but the austerity speaks for itself.

I roll the comforter away and find my legs completely naked save for my shorts. I also notice the long T-shirt hung loosely on my shoulders, a few sizes too big, covering the entirety of my body till my upper thighs.

I am wearing a man’s T-shirt and it is comfiest thing I’ve ever worn.

I rush to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, then start hunting for a toothbrush. Finding none, I smear toothpaste onto my index finger and scrub my teeth like a madwoman.

Not very likely, but if I kissed a man last night, I need the taste gone.

“It’s a good thing I don’t remember the kiss.” I mumble around my finger absent-mindedly. Just a fantasy, though; I can hardly believe I would’ve kissed someone.

Sane or not.

I wash my face with some soap and water as a man will certainly not have my skincare routine stacked on his shelf.

I know I didn’t have sex or else I would feel it…there, but I’m just as I was yesterday.

Fine.

“What kiss are you talking about?” The grumble is too deep, too manly to be mine, and impossible to miss.

I almost crack my head trying to jerk backward from the voice, my hand flying to my chest.