Page 81 of Mission Shift

Something lodged itself in my chest. The significance of her words lingered between us. The apprehension in her posture was apparent, the way she seemed caught between duty and something deeper—something caring.

To put her at ease, I sighed and gestured toward the tray. “The food is a wonderful surprise. I haven’t had a decent meal in over a week.” I picked up a piece of fresh bread, tearing into the soft center and popping it into my mouth. “Mmm, I’d almost forgotten what real food tasted like.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. A satisfied glint flickered in her eyes before she gave me an approving nod and smoothed the front of her apron.

Then my eyes shifted to the small, delicate cakes beside the tea. “Where did you find these ptichye moloko? I haven’t had them in years.”

She shifted on her feet. “I remembered you liked them as a little girl.”

I smiled. “I do,” I murmured. “I always have. Thank you…for helping me.”

She dropped her gaze, turning toward the door. Her fingers tightened on the handle, and then she froze for a second, clearing her throat. “I could be in great trouble if anyone knew I brought the treats.”

“I won’t tell,” I whispered.

“They’ve given me strict orders to only provide you with what is absolutely necessary and to…lock you in,” she said hesitantly.

“I understand.”

Then, without looking back, she slipped out of the room. She closed the door, and a second later, the lock clicked into place.

The moment she left, I dug into the food.

God, I was starving. The borscht and pelmeni were rich and filling. But it was the ptichye moloko that nearly undid me. The first bite melted on my tongue, sweet and soft.

My mother used to make these. I closed my eyes for half a second, then shoved the memory away.

I needed food. Because, if I was going to survive this, I needed to be strong enough to escape.

I woke late the next day, disoriented. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I saw the tray of food on the dresser.

I sat up, wincing, my muscles stiff and my ribs protesting the movement. Before I could even swing my legs over the side of the bed, the door opened and Svetlana stepped in, holding another tray.

She blinked. “You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours.”

I frowned, rubbing the back of my neck. “I slept like the dead.”

She winced at my word choice, then set the new tray down on the bed and moved to take the old one.

I stretched, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through my body. I let out a low groan and cursed under my breath.

Damn Boy Scout.

Svetlana’s head snapped toward me, her brows rising. “Who are you cursing?”

I exhaled through my nose. “No one.”

She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head slightly, but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself. I met her gaze, saying coolly, “Never trust a man, Svetlana.”

Wordlessly, she stared at me for a moment, something unreadable flashing across her face.

“I’ve placed some fresh towels in the en suite,” she said finally, taking the untouched tray and moving toward the door.

A few seconds later, the lock clicked behind her.

I sighed, grabbing the new tray and pulling it into my lap. On it was a steaming bowl of porridge with lingonberries and honey drizzled over it, some fresh bread, and a small plate of blini topped with berries and cream. Yum!

I would spend my days here eating, resting, and plotting, because I was done being a prisoner.

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