Page 80 of Mission Shift

She set the towel down beside the tub and turned to leave.

I didn’t say anything more, just watched as she closed the door behind her.

After moving to face the tub, I dipped a foot into the nearly scalding water, biting back a hiss. Slowly, I pushed past the sting, easing myself down inch by inch. The water was almost too hot, but I forced myself deeper, letting the heat seep into my aching muscles.

I soaked in the tub for a long time. Soon, the soreness left by days of grueling travel, torture, and confinement began to ease.The water dulled the pain of my injuries, offering me a rare moment of relief. For the first time in days, I was warm and submerged in something that didn’t reek of rot, blood, or fear.

I let my head rest against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes, savoring this fleeting moment of normalcy. For now, at least, I wasn’t shackled or under someone else’s control. It was almost enough to fool myself into thinking I was free.

But I wasn’t.

A slow breath left my lips, rippling the water.

Eventually, the heat began to fade, and I forced myself to leave the tub. I turned on the shower, letting the steaming spray wash away the last remnants of grime as I worked the scented soap over my skin. While I ran my fingers through my short hair, a stray thought surfaced—I could finally let it grow again. I was no longer bound to the Kremlin, no longer required to keep my hair short for practicality, for combat.

Once, I’d enjoyed sitting in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, spending hours experimenting with different styles, twisting it into intricate braids, sleek buns, anything that came to mind. There was a time when I’d cared about those things, about how my hair framed my face, how it swayed with every movement. That felt like a lifetime ago.

Would it still grow the same? Or had too many years passed, too much damage been done, leaving even my hair unwilling to return to what it had once been?

I shook the thought away, finished rinsing, and turned off the water. With slow movements, I dried my skin, wincing as I pressed the towel against my bruises. Before wrapping the towel around my body, I carefully ran it over my hair to remove most of the moisture.

Crossing the room, I opened the closet. To my surprise, my boots sat on the floor next to a row of neatly hung clothing. Looking closer, I found there were new clothes in my size.Quickly I grabbed an oversized T-shirt, some sweatpants, and a pair of thick fuzzy socks.

Filling the closet hadn’t been my father’s doing. He wouldn’t lift a finger to make my stay more tolerable, which meant Svetlana must have placed them here while I was unconscious.

I dressed, relishing the softness of the fabric against my battered skin. As I pulled the shirt over my head, I thought back to Svetlana’s reaction when she’d seen my bruised body in the mirror, the horror she had failed to conceal. There was something familiar about her, something that scratched at the edges of my memory, but I couldn’t quite place her.

Had she known my mother?

Before I could think about it further, the door creaked open, and Svetlana entered, carrying a silver tray.

My brows shot up in surprise.

This was definitely not prison food. Not the cold gruel and stale black bread they’d tossed into my cell almost two days before. This was actual food.

There was a steaming bowl of borscht—rich and deep red, with thick slices of dark rye bread and butter; a small plate of pelmeni, the smell of garlic and dill rising in the air; and at the center, a delicate porcelain dish holding two ptichye moloko—soft, chocolate-covered marshmallow cakes. A cup of tea sat on the edge of the tray, fragrant and dark.

My stomach twisted—partly in hunger, partly in disbelief.

Svetlana set the tray on the small table beside the bed and lingered for a moment, watching me. I studied her closely, registering a flickering mixture of guilt and curiosity in her eyes.

“Did you know my mother?” I asked softly.

She stiffened slightly but nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “She hired me…just weeks before she was killed.”

My throat tightened.

“She was kind,” she continued. “Kinder than anyone in this house, and she loved you fiercely.” She hesitated before adding, “It wasn’t long after she was gone that your father sent you away. To that…school.” She pressed her lips together. “He would brag about it, how you were becoming the perfect weapon.”

I scoffed, raking a hand through my damp hair. “Yes, well. Look at me now.” My tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Doesn’t seem like he got his money’s worth, does it? I’m not much of a weapon if I can’t even defend myself.”

Svetlana swallowed, her eyes darting to the bruises on my skin. “I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.

“No, you’re right. All he ever cared about was me being the most skilled, the top of my class. I was just letting my frustration out.” I shook my head, letting out a dry chuckle. “He’s no longer proud of my abilities. He’s disowning me, you know.”

She was quiet for a long moment before finally meeting my eyes.

“I never forgot your mother,” she barely whispered. “Or you. He’s such a horrible man.”

---