hit the mattress and my body hovered over hers. Shifting my grip until I held her wrists, I pulled her arms above her head and straddled her waist.
My face lowered until it was merely an inch above hers. “Pozhaluysta,” she whispered, begging “please” in Russian.
My heart missed a beat at the fear in my throat, and I hissed, “Don’t ever call me by that number again, Georgian bitch.”
Her eyes widened, then filled with water, and she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I—” I increased the grip I had on her wrists, but she asked, “What is your name? Please, tell me your name?”
Inching closer, until my forehead pressed against hers, I replied, “What is yours, little kotyonok? And don’t lie. I’m getting tired of your lies.”
Swallowing, she opened her mouth, then with sagging shoulders whispered, “Zoya. My name is Zoya.”
The pads of my thumbs pressed on the pulse of her wrist to detect the lie. But her pulse never changed—she was telling me the truth. Loosening my hands around her wrists, I pulled back and questioned, “You tell the truth?”
Face paling, she whispered, “Yes.”
“Why?” I snapped. My muscles bunched at why this little kotyonok, this little warrior who had resisted that question for days, gave it up so freely.
Inhaling, she slipped her hand through my loose grip and laid the shaking hand on my right cheek. Her thumb gently ran over the bump of my scars. She said, “When you took me, when you brought me to this hell, I believed you to be a monster.” Her eyes lowered, but she blinked away her fear and stared once again at her thumb on my scars. “When you hurt me, when you asked me questions, I did not want to give you the victory of breaking me. But now…,” she trailed off.
“But now what?” I pushed, my voice rough and low.
Skin flushing once more, the female dropped her thumb to run along my lips and added, “But now I see you are just like me.” She ran her fingers under my eyes, only to drop them and run them over the collar around my neck, and said, “You are in pain. Your life has not been your own, is still not your own.” She sighed sadly. “Just like mine.”
Ice-cold chills ran through my body as I stared at this little solider beneath me, slight but with a heart of steel. Lifting her head, she pressed her forehead to mine and said, “We are different. Me weak and you strong. Me a Georgian and you Russian, but our broken hearts are tired and old. Our spirits are low, though not broken. But our souls, though thoroughly tested and hardened through pain, are resilient.” Her lips twitched, and she added, “They are the same.”
Her head fell back to the mattress. “That is why I give you my truth. It is why I give you my real name.”
The female wrapped herself around my heart like a warm blanket. It beat with the hope, with the surreal feeling, that she knew what it felt like to be me. She knew loss and grief.
She too harbored a scarred soul.
My hand lifted, and I lowered myself farther against her body. I groaned as my naked flesh met hers. I ran the back of my hand down her cheek and murmured, “Zoya.”
Zoya’s cheek flushed and she smiled. Catching my hand in hers, she asked, “Can I know your name? Do you … do you know your name?”
I frowned. I hadn’t been asked my name since I was twelve. But I remembered it. I remembered everything; my mind never forgot even when the drugs made everything hazy. I had seen many men brought in and out of Mistress’s prisons throughout the years. But where they had fallen prey to the drug Mistress forced us to take, I had fought it with every ounce of my being. I had pretended. I’d played my part, but I kept hold of my memories. My name was locked in my heart.
“Valentin,” I found myself admitting in a quiet, raspy voice. “I am Valentin.” I rolled my tongue in my mouth, the name so unfamiliar on my lips.
“Valentin,” Zoya whispered, her voice like a balm to my inner rage, and whether I wanted to or not, I failed to control myself.
In two seconds flat, I’d crushed my lips against hers.
It was my very first kiss.
11
ZOYA
It was working. I was getting through to him. What I wanted was going according to plan. Or it