Page 79 of Mission Shift

Then, I looked up.

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman I barely recognized.

Hollow eyes, bruised cheekbones, a swollen and cut lip. Skin marred with dark smudges of pain. Everything hurt.

I dragged a hand over my face.

How had I gotten so old? So hardened? I was only thirty-one, and yet I felt ancient.

My gaze drifted beyond my reflection to the room itself. My childhood bedroom hadn’t changed.

White canopy bed with pale pink silk sheets. Bookshelves filled with fairy tales my mother used to read to me. Delicate ballerina figurines she’d gifted me, lined up in a perfect row on my dresser—frozen in eternal pirouettes. Everything was still here, untouched, as if time had never moved forward.

I swallowed hard, crossing the room and trailing my fingers over the objects as memories flooded in.

My mother’s voice, soft and full of love, reading the children’s storybook version ofSwan Laketo me at bedtime. Her hands, warm and gentle, tucking me under the blankets. The scent of her perfume, light and floral, lingering in the air as she kissed my forehead goodnight while I drifted off to dream of her dancing the story on the stage. Little did I know at the time, theSwan Lakeballet was a haunting tale of love, betrayal, and destiny, often interpreted as a metaphor for sacrifice and unattainable love.

I blinked, my throat tightening as my hand landed on something unexpected.

A small, delicate box.

I hesitated before lifting the lid. Inside lay my mother’s pearl necklace—creamy white, smooth beneath my fingertips.

My breath hitched. I hadn’t seen them since the Devil murdered her. I thought he had gotten rid of all her things. He must have missed this necklace.

My fingers closed around the pearls. I would take them with me when I left. Because Iwouldbe leaving, and then I would escape Malinov’s clutches.

A quiet knock at the door made me turn. There must be surveillance in the room. I’d have to assume there were watchful eyes everywhere.

The maid, an older woman with kind eyes and a lined face, stepped inside, her posture stiff but unhurried as she joined me in the en suite.

She set about drawing a bath, speaking in hushed tones. “The household director will check in on you to ensure that we do everything in our power to help you heal up before you leave. Mr. Malinov is planning an engagement party two weeks from now in his home. He wants to show off his latest fiancée.” She sounded apologetic and spoke as though she was carefully choosing her words.

My lip curled in disgust. Of course. The prikazchik, my father’s extremely loyal senior household servant—an old-school, controlling brute who managed the estate like a prison warden—would ensure I wasproperly preparedfor Malinov.

Fury coiled inside me—a black, writhing thing. I had been beaten, humiliated, stripped of everything—my name, my autonomy, and my future. But I wasnotbroken.

The maid, however, was watching me, so I kept my emotions in check. I refused to give her anything she could relay to those who might use it against me in their mind games.

“Please come soak,” she said. “A nice hot bath with epsom salts will help make you feel better.”

I unbuttoned the shirt and let it fall. When I turned to the full-length mirror, I paused, somewhat startled.

My entire torso was mottled with dark bruises, the outlines of knuckles and bootprints blackening my ribs and spine. My arms and legs bore similar marks, each one a testament to my father’s rage and the torture I’d endured.

I looked dreadful.

The maid gasped softly behind me.

Turning, I caught a flicker of horror in her expression before she quickly masked it.

I lifted my chin. “What’s your name?”

Her lips parted slightly, and she hesitated before answering. “Svetlana.”

She looked away, grabbing a fresh towel. “He used to beat you as a child,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “but never this badly.”

I stared at her. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrung the towel in her fingers. Something in my chest cracked.

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