Page 74 of Mission Shift

Compartmentalize. Break the pain into pieces. Separate. Separate. Separate.

After Oleg had used his fingers in the vilest of ways, he was finally done. My skin burned where he had touched me—a filth that would never wash away, a memory that would never be erased. He had only used his fingers. The doctor hadn’t allowed anything else.

That should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.

The way my body had reacted—betraying me despite how much my mind fought against the involuntary responses—I would never forget it. And the way Oleg had whispered praises and humiliations in the same breath, like I was some fucking prize to be admired and degraded in the same moment, made my stomach churn.

I would slit his throat from ear to ear when I got the chance.

And Iwouldget the chance.

“You’re a lucky whore,” Dr. Gore said. “You’ve got a new owner who will ensure you know your place, and you will never have to wonder what it’s like to be at any other man’s mercy but his. He’ll train you. And you will obey.”

Oleg finally removed his hands and stepped back.

The men moved behind me so that I could no longer see either of them as they prepared for whatever they were going to do next.

I lay there, my body sluggish, my limbs trembling, my muscles twitching. I flexed my fingers, testing them. My throat ached, and it was as dry as sandpaper, but I could move. That meant I could speak.

Dr. Goryachov walked back into view and noticed my movements.

“Ah,” he said, his lips curling into a disturbing smile. “Welcome back.”

He curled his gloved fingers around the airway tube, gripping it like a man savoring the moment before tearing the wings off a butterfly. He gave a slow, deliberate twist, loosening the seal, then—with a single, sharp yank—pulled it free.

A violent gag tore through me. My body seized as bile surged up my throat. I turned my head just in time to empty the pitiful contents of my stomach onto the floor, each retch sending fresh pain through my battered ribs.

“Fucking disgusting,” Oleg sneered.

Dr. Goryachovtsked, his nostrils flaring in annoyance. His hand struck my face so fast I barely registered the movement before my head jerked sideways.

“Clean that up,” he snapped at Oleg. “I don’t want to smell her filth while I work.”

Oleg muttered something crude under his breath but grabbed a cloth.

I swallowed past the lingering acid in my throat, blinking up at the doctor. My body was still coming out from under the paralysis, but my mind—it was intact. They hadn’t broken me. Not yet.

Dr. Goryachov folded his hands behind his back, tilting his head like I was some fascinating specimen under glass. “Thesooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can wrap up this little session.”

I stared at him defiantly. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

His lips twitched. “Tell me, Daria”—he took a step closer—“why did you choose to help a man with close ties to the Volkovs, your father’s greatest enemy?”

I didn’t even try to speak.

He sighed, feigning disappointment. “Have it your way. You will tell me everything. It’s only a matter of how much damage to your brain you’re willing to endure before you do.”

The doctor rolled a machine next to me and began attaching electrodes to my skin.

To my wrists.

The soles of my feet.

The inside of my thighs.

Everything was methodical.

The doctor then turned to the machine, adjusting the dials.

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