Chapter 5

POLINA

I don't ever remember feeling so much pain—it’s carved into my bones, relentless and unforgiving. Crushing. My head feels three times its normal size, and my shoulder and arm throb relentlessly. The skin on my face stings, and something is very, very wrong with my leg.

What happened? Where am I? I try to recall something that will bring reassurance but can’t.

But there’s one question that troubles me far more than the pain does: Who am I?

I hear voices talking over me but not to me because they think I'm still asleep. Am I still asleep? My stomach roils with something like hunger, and my mouth waters. I feel as if I'm going to be sick. I try to open my eyes, but they feel too heavy. One thing is clear—at least I’m not dead. It doesn't seem possible that death and pain this intense can coexist. Or maybe that's all there is—maybe there's nothing but pain after death.

I try to sleep. It's minutes, hours, maybe days later when I try to open my eyes again. I need answers. Who am I, and why does it feel like everything I knew has slipped away?

This time, I'm able to open my eyes a bit, even though it seems to take every single ounce of my energy. I see someone sitting in front of me, with long, auburn hair that I don't recognize, and the inside of a well-appointed room that’s equally unfamiliar. I look down at my body, hoping that I will recognize something. I stare at my hands. The fingers are long, the nails trimmed, painted with a tip of white. What's that called? I can't remember. There's a white sheet over me, and on the left side, something bulges underneath the sheet. Why is my left side so much bigger than my right? I'm aware of deep voices and high-pitched voices, but none are familiar. It terrifies me because nothing is familiar.

"I think she's waking."

I blink and open my eyes again and realize what I thought I was seeing was just in my imagination, my half-conscious awareness. Because my hands are not in front of me. They are tied to the bed, shackled with metal handcuffs. I gasp and try to move my legs and realize they are cuffed too.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Don't fight it.” The voice belongs to the small woman at my bedside. I don't even know if I can call her a woman. Girl? She's definitely younger than I am, but I couldn't tell you my age, no matter what you offered me. "Don't speak right now. You're in recovery."

Recovery from… what? Did I have surgery? That must be it. I had surgery, and they gave me medicine that made my brain forget everything for a little bit. I breathe through my nose and exhale. In a little while, it will come back. I’ll remember why I’m here.

What is my name? I never knew how important it was to remember my name until I couldn't.

I yank my wrist, but the metal is unyielding. I pull my ankles, and it's the same thing. I need help. I ignore her advice because I have something to say.

"Why am I like this?" My voice wobbles.

The young woman looks concerned.

"You really don't know?"

I shake my head, but it hurts. It feels like my brain is going to explode out of my skull.

“Never mind that. We'll have time to get to that. Tell me, are you in pain?"

Finally, something I can answer. “Yes. So much pain.” The words come out in Russian.

I speak Russian. I understand Russian. Something I can hold onto.

"She needs morphine," the young girl says quietly. I didn't notice the other person in the room, dressed in white.

"No," I say, my voice shaky. I know that morphine will make me disoriented, and I don't need to be more disoriented.

The young woman, who stands in the shadows—I don’t know who she is, stares at a man beside her. I blink. I didn’t realize anyone else was in the room. “Sir?”

She’s asking him for permission? Wait. Do I know that man? He’s tall and broad and towers over the two women.

“No morphine,” he says in a low growl of a voice. “No painkillers at all.”

No painkillers? I’m bound to this bed and not allowed anything for the pain. A moment ago, I contemplated not having them at all, but being disallowed them is another level of cruel. I stare at the man, trying to place him, but he’s shadowed and unfamiliar.

The girl’s voice trembles as she protests. "Rafail, that's too cruel."

I don’t know the name Rafail. But I don’t even know my name.

“Since when do I give a shit about that?” he snarls, turning away from the deprecating look she gives him.

“Please,” I say, my voice trembling. “Someone tell me how I got here. Who I am. What happened?”

The man steps out of the shadows. I note the sharp angle of his jaw, the utter coldness in his cruel eyes. For some reason, he’s vibrating with barely controlled rage, directed straight at me .

“Wait,” the woman says with concern. “She doesn’t know who she is.”

His unconcerned shrug troubles me. "Not out of the ordinary." Turning back to the woman in white, he orders, "Give her water and food so she can keep her energy up. No morphine."

I watch as she prepares a cocktail of sorts for me with deft fingers.

Questions spin through my mind. I open my mouth to speak to the woman, but he’s watching me. I don’t trust anyone in this room. My instincts tell me I can at least trust the gentle one, but I don't even know who I am. Can I even trust my instincts?

While they talk in low voices among themselves, I note everything I can. First, I am shackled to a bed. The woman next to me is friendly enough, but she obeys the big, muscled man.

That guy is hot. Devastatingly, dangerously handsome, if cruel. Decidedly used to getting his way it seems, and for some reason, which is wildly confusing to me, he hates me. He's obviously powerful, so I can only assume I’ve done something to offend him. Too bad I have no idea what that is.

But because this young woman next to me seems like an ally, I can maybe use her kindness to my advantage.

I push through the discomfort and use my voice. It hurts. Who knew that it could actually hurt to speak? But my chest tightens, and my throat is dry. "How long have I been here?" I begin with an easy question. Something that should be simple enough for her to answer without fearing the wrath of the man.

She leans in, her voice kind. "You came here last night, and you've slept all day.”

Not long, then. How did I get here?

When he stalks toward me, the young girl sits up straighter, her eyes wide in fear. “Rafail,” she says, pleading.

“You know what she did. I’m not going to be gentle,” he says in a growl. “Do I need to excuse you from her care?”

“No,” she whispers, her face pained as she turns away.

“I promise. I won’t hurt her in front of you.”

I blink in shock. In front of her? What will he do when he has me alone?

He looms over me like a fire-breathing dragon, and I shrink back on the sheets. I’m not going to be gentle. Who is he? Who am I ? What did I do that’s infuriated him?

He’s tall and unyielding, his large frame filling the space between us. I’m dwarfed by him. His face is all sharp angles and hard edges—dark-brown eyes glaring at me, a chiseled jaw clenched in barely contained rage, a full mouth pressed into a cruel line as if he’s holding back a thousand things he wants to hurl at me. Dark stubble graces his sharp jawline, adding a raw, dangerous, masculine edge to his flawless appearance.

His eyes are dark and intense, a deep, bottomless black that seems to drink everything in, pinning me in place. They’re cold, and yet, something like fire burns in their depths. Broad shoulders fill out a pressed white dress shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric. A man built for dominance. Strength. A man made for War.

I stare at his arms corded with muscle, large, capable hands, one clenched at his side while the other rests on the edge of the bed, trapping me as if the handcuffs aren’t enough. Leaning over, he inspects my injuries in silence, as if… as if I belong to him. It’s disconcerting. No, it’s terrifying.

“Who are you?” I whisper when he brushes his fingers along my jaw, his thumb grazing my lips. Fear spikes my pulse, and I try to turn away but can’t. The touch is so… intimate. Possessive. And he’s a stranger to me.

A shadow crosses his features. Frowning, he asks me, “You really don’t know?”

I shake my head. Pain explodes in my skull and along the back of my neck. I wince.

Moving his hand to cup my cheek, he whispers to me, “All you need to know is that you’re mine, and you’re not going anywhere now.”

I shiver at his touch, consumed with an odd mixture of fear and curiosity. Before he releases me, he brushes a kiss to my forehead, but it doesn’t feel tender. It’s like he’s showing me that he can. A searing touch that feels more like a statement than a caress, more like a claim than affection.

Turning, he stalks to the door, leaving me with the young woman. Girl?

"I’m in so much pain,” I say in a low voice to the young woman. "Do you really think it necessary for me to be shackled to this bed?"

"I think it's necessary to do whatever my brother tells me to do," she says in a little voice. "And soon you'll learn that's true for you too."

Her brother. Now we're getting somewhere.

I press on. "It's uncomfortable being chained like this."

With a look of chagrin, she wrings her hand for a fraction of a second before she nods. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I really can't let you go."

Tears blind my eyes. I don't ever recall feeling this helpless, but then again, I don't recall much of anything. It’s like waking from a nightmare only to realize you’re still dreaming.

I take a shaky breath and let it out.

"What's your name?" I ask quietly. Can she answer that? Her brown eyes are as soft as a doe’s, her thin face pinched.

"Zoya,” she whispers.

I ask her the question that plagues me, my voice trembling. “What’s mine?”