Page 71 of Imperfect Desires

I grab my coat, shove my phones into my pocket, and head for the elevator. My boots echo on the marble floor like war drums. The air outside is sharp and biting, and it clears the last fog from my mind.

25

Alina

I wake to a dim light flickering above me, buzzing faintly like a dying insect. My body is stiff; my muscles are cramped from sleeping on the concrete floor. Every part of me aches. My wrists burn from the rope that has been too tight for too long.

The air is cold. It smells like mildew, dust, and something metallic. Blood, maybe. I try not to think about that. I try not to think about anything too much.

I’ve stopped crying. The tears dried up hours ago. I try to think about how long I’ve been here, but time doesn’t work in here. There are no clocks, no sunlight, just the intermittent sound of footsteps and the scraping of a metal door when food is slid in.

I’ve started counting those moments. It gives me something to focus on. The guards rotate, I think. The one with the limp whistles when he walks. The other drags his boots. I know which one brings food and which one likes to leer through the tiny slot in the door.

I keep my eyes open now. I memorize everything.

They want me weak. They expect me to be broken. But they don’t know who I am.

I move slowly to sit up, my hand instinctively drifting to my abdomen. The dull ache there is constant, but there’s no blood. That’s all that matters.

"You’re okay," I whisper to the life inside me. "We’re okay."

I don’t know if that’s true, but I say it anyway. Maybe it’s more for me than the baby. The only thing keeping me sane is this small hope, this stubborn belief that I’ll survive.

The door creaks open, and I tense. A man enters, not the usual one. He’s taller, more composed. There’s something polished about him that makes my skin crawl. He holds a metal tray of food and sets it down on the floor without a word. Then he turns to me.

"How’s our little princess today?" His voice is like oil—too smooth, too practiced.

I meet his gaze without flinching. "Is this where you pretend to care before threatening me?"

He laughs, the sound hollow. "You’ve got spirit. I like that. Let’s see how long it lasts."

He steps closer. I stay rooted to the floor.

"You’re lucky, you know," he continues. "My boss fancies himself willing to marry you. Otherwise, the men here would have helped themselves to you."

I don’t respond. This fool will not have the pleasure of seeing me afraid or shaken. He’s trying to provoke me. To shake me. I won't give him that.

"You better please the boss so that he doesn’t hand you down." He leers. “When he says open, you’d better open wide.”

Still, I stay silent.

He leans in, studying my face. "You’re quieter than I expected. I thought the daughter of Igor Makarov would be louder. More... dramatic."

I arch an eyebrow as my only response.

His smile falters as he walks away. "We’ll talk soon." The door slams behind him as he leaves.

Only when I’m sure he’s gone do I allow the tension to leave my shoulders. My hands tremble as I reach for the tray. I’m not hungry, but I eat. I force every bite down because I need my strength.

Later, when the light dims again, I curl up on the thin blanket they threw in some hours ago. I run my fingers over the ridges in the wall beside me, counting them like I’ve done every night. A ritual to remind myself that I’m still here.

My mind slips back to a moment I haven’t thought about in years—one of my earliest memories of the bratva’s old trainer, Kazimir.

I was six. Still small enough to hide behind the pillar in our gym while he barked orders at the older boys. One day he saw me there, watching. Instead of sending me away, he handed me a rope and said,“If you want to be strong, then learn what pain feels like when it teaches you.”

He made me balance on a narrow beam for ten minutes straight, blindfolded. I’d fallen twice. Cried the first time. Bit my lip the second. But I didn’t give up.

“Pain is not your enemy,” he said. “It’s the part of you that refuses to die.”

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