Page 95 of Mission Shift

“The Devil will be watching closely,” she added. “You must be careful.”

I nodded once.

She hesitated, glancing toward the camera in the corner. She couldn’t say more.

Instead, she picked up the hairbrush from the nightstand, perched her hip on the bed next to me, and began pulling the brush through my hair with gentle strokes, like a mother tending to her child. Her fingers swept across the nape of my neck, and she whispered against my ear, “I will be at the party.”

I exhaled, slow and steady.

“I will distract the guards if needed.”

I kept my hands relaxed in my lap.

“If you escape, never come back. If you get caught…” She paused. “I will say I knew nothing.”

I reached up, touching her fingers briefly in silent understanding.

She was risking everything for me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

For a moment, we simply sat there while she wove her fingers through my hair.

Then she stopped and slowly stood, as if a thousand pounds sat on her shoulders. She gave me a small smile and smoothed the front of her apron. “Get some rest,” she said, her voice cool and detached.

Then she was gone.

Chapter thirty

Ipushed the empty plate aside, the last bite of buttered blini and caviar sitting heavy in my stomach. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but Svetlana had insisted I eat every bite. I just wanted to get this day over with.

The food wasn’t for me—it was for them, the ones watching on the cameras. They had to see me as obedient, willing, docile.

I wiped my mouth with a linen napkin and set it beside the dish just as Svetlana swept into the room, flanked by a team of women carrying makeup and hair cases.

“Time to make you beautiful,” she announced.

The beauty brigade approached, their heels clicking against the wood floor as they surrounded me. I was nothing more than a doll to them, a thing to be polished and adorned.

I followed their orders as their hands scrubbed every inch of my skin, washing away any last remnants of imperfection. They applied exfoliants, scented oils, and body butters. My skin was slathered and buffed until it gleamed. My legs and arms were waxed despite the fact that I’d barely had any hair to begin with. My nails were trimmed, shaped, and painted a pale pink. They were now demure, delicate, a mockery of the blood they had once been stained with.

The hairstylist circled me, running her hands through my short blonde hair, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

“There’s not much I can do with this,” she muttered, tugging at it.

I arched a brow at her through the mirror. “I did consider shaving it all off.”

She gasped, her hands flying to her chest like I had suggested setting myself on fire.

Svetlana snorted behind me.

“Absolutely not,” the stylist huffed. “That would be a tragedy.”

“Would it?” I mused, tilting my head. “I think it’d be quite freeing.”

She muttered something under her breath before grabbing a comb and getting to work.

In the end, she decided to add a little volume and curl the hair to frame my face, giving the illusion that effort had been made where little could be done.

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