Page 90 of Mission Shift

I didn’t respond.

As she left the room, all I could do was sit there at the edge of the bed and grip the sheets, swallowing my fury.

This wasn’t about humiliation.

This was about control.

They thought they had broken me.

They thought I was nothing but a docile, obedient possession—ready to be gifted like a prize.

Let them believe it.

I scooched back on the bed and pulled the tray to me. There was no way I’d let them ruin my appetite. Eating was my ticket to gaining strength and saving my damn self. I launched into the porridge, savoring its earthy taste.

I had ten days to plot my escape. I needed information. I needed weapons. And I needed to make sure no one suspected that I was going to bolt.

That night, I found a note from Svetlana tucked into the pocket of my robe:Your father has all your IDs and passport. I will get them back. Be patient.

To conceal the paper’s true purpose from those watching me, I gripped it between my fingers as if it were a tissue, pressing it to my lips and wiping them. Then I tore it in half and blew my nose on the pieces before going to the bathroom and flushing them down the toilet.

Patience.

I had lived my life playing a long game, waiting for the moment to strike.

This would be no different. But maybe I wouldn’t have to do this alone.

During the next several days of my captivity, I focused on rebuilding my strength.

I forced myself to stretch, ignoring the pull of bruised muscles. Slow, controlled push-ups, squats, and core workleft me wincing, but I pushed through. Pain meant nothing. Weakness was not an option. I was determined to get my body in decent enough shape that it wouldn’t fail me when the time came.

Svetlana continued to bring me good food and medicine, ensuring I healed more thoroughly than my captors likely intended. But more than that, she brought me something unexpected—American romance books.

She’d removed the covers, leaving only the main pages, so the books looked like nothing more than old reading material, nothing remarkable to the ever-watching cameras. If anyone noticed the titles, they might confiscate them—or worse, punish Svetlana for smuggling them in.

I had never read this genre before. Here in Russia, romance books—especially those from the West—were tightly regulated, censored, or outright banned. Anything too explicit was classified as pornographic under Russian law, and bookstores risked heavy fines or forced closures if they carried anything that violated the Federal Law on the Protection of Children from Harmful Information.

Even online content wasn’t safe. Western retailers selling digital romance novels with explicit content were often blocked or restricted by the government. Websites were filtered, search results manipulated, and even translated versions of these books were heavily edited or never published at all. Any mentionof same-sex relationships was erased entirely under the “gay propaganda” law, and even heterosexual romance was expected to conform to traditional values—duty over passion, obedience over desire.

I had never given it much thought before. Sex was not a topic of open discussion here. Desire—especially a woman’s—was something to be controlled, not indulged.

But now, as I flipped through the pages, I found myself laughing at the way these American authors described sexuality. It was so shameless, so bold—as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The heroines were fierce, reckless, demanding of their pleasure. The heroes? Passionate, devoted, and entirely consumed by the women they wanted. It was over-the-top. Unrealistic.

Or was it…?

It explained a lot.

It explained Braxton.

Not just the way he kissed me like he wanted to devour me, but also the way he touched me afterward, like I was something to be cherished. Like I mattered.

It explained why he’d insisted on holding my hand.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as I turned another page. Thoughts of Braxton were strictly off-limits.

Settling in on the bed, I continued to read, and for the first time in days, I felt lighter.

I wasn’t just plotting, fighting, surviving—I was smiling.

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