Page 63 of Refrain

“Performer’s choice,” I tell her in the end.

She shrugs, but the grim expression that takes over her face is anything but casual. The words come slowly, but it’s obvious where they lead.

“I…I was fifteen when I was sold to Piotr Petrov. I still remember that day so clearly. It was like a nightmare, too vibrant to seem real.”

Damn it.The pain in her tone slices through me like a razor. I shake my head to cut her off. “You don’t have to tell me this—”

“I want to.”

No. Sheneedsto. For whatever reason, the truth is burning a hole in her throat now. I never thought I’d get to hear the story of her past. I’m not sure if I want to. But stopping her would be worse. Pain is like that—it can sink into your veins like poison for years before seeping out. From your pores. From your throat. You can’t pick the way it gets expelled. You just suffer through the purge.

“I was fifteen.” She dabs at my mouth again and then stares down at the bloodied bit of tissue. After a second, she sets it asideand picks up the ice cubes she wrapped in the dishtowel. I grit my teeth at the icy sensation and try to grab it myself, but she evades my grasp until I let her hold it there. “My father was a boss in a drug-running syndicate back in Russia. Heroin. Liquor. He was no saint, but even now…looking back, I can still feel just how much I loved him.” Her eyes flutter shut for a brief second and reopen ice cold. “One day, the syndicate fractured. Two leaders got into a power struggle. The others were left to take sides, and my father…he chose wrong.” She sucks in air. Lifts the ice pack. Frowns and sets it against my jaw again. “He sided against a man named Wilhem Petrov who, once he’d cemented his power, made sure that those who stood against him realized their mistake.”

Her hand falls. She’s staring at the floor now, her hair framing her face like a halo of shadow. Pain paints her body in shades of gray. Her eyes seem darker. Her skin paler.

“You don’t have to—”

“Iwantto.” This is more than a morbid game of show-and-tell for her. She shakes her head to clear it and reaches for the bloody rag again. “They came in the middle of the night,” she says. “They dragged us all from bed and into my father’s study. They made him watch as they slit his wife’s throat in front of their daughter. Then they blinded him with the end of a lit cigar and made him listen while they took turns…” She dabs at my mouth again. Faster. Harsher.

I don’t react to the pain. I bite it back and watch her face. Her eyes are wide, haunting, and yellow.

“While they…” It takes her three tries before she gives up saying exactly what. She’s up on her knees now, her hand still pressed to my face, those eyes distant.

I bet she’s not even seeing me anymore. What she’s looking at, she doesn’t like.

My hand is on her shoulder before I realize it. I can do thatmuch—comfort her like this and not have it mean a damn thing. She doesn’t shrug me off at least. Maybe it helps.

“When the last man took his turn…they finally put a bullet in my father’s brain. Then they took my sister. She was so little.” Her voice breaks on a harsh gasp. She has to inhale to find the words again. “A baby who’d barely started to talk. I used to call herlittle foxbecause of her hair. I never saw her again. I hoped they would kill me, but they had another use in mind. Piotr, Wilhem’s son, had a business in America smuggling girls to rich men for sex. They might as well make money off me before they killed me.”

She swallows hard. Breathes deep. Tries again. “I wasn’t like Domi. Not in the end. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t smart. I was aslave. I surrendered my identity. I became a pet. A plaything. A toy. Whatever role helped me to avoid a beating.”

“But you got out.” I’m not prodding her. Just stating the facts.

She nods, steering the direction of the story. “One day, Piotr went too far.” She grits her teeth, but it takes her only a few seconds to swallow the pain and keep talking. “They left me in an alley just outside the club. I would have died if a friend hadn’t found me.”

“Ivan Ivanov?” It’s a leap of logic, but she nods, proving my hunch about why she took Domi to his territory the day we got her from the station.

“Ivan. He took care of me. He helped me get an education. Find employment. Live.”

But it’s not really living for her. I can see it in her face. I know that slack-jawed expression. How dead you can feel inside when you know you’re powerless. How addicting the power can be when you finally vanquish one of your demons.

Even with Vlad dead, she’s still not living.

“I just want you to know. I need you to understand,” she says. “No matter what…no matter what. I’ve never lied about this. Helping Domi. Piotr. Vlad. None of it was a lie.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t want the validation. She just needed to hear it out loud—shedid.

“Your face looks better,” she says while rising to her feet. She gathers up the bloodied rags and carries them into the kitchen. Then she wipes the counter down—a task I suspect she does to keep her hands busy more than anything. She’s on her third pass when she finally addresses me directly over her shoulder. “You live here alone.”

It isn’t a question, but I still answer her. “Yeah. It’s just me.”

“Just you and no one else?” She deliberately skirts around the subject of Dante. “No roommate? No girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” She shuts the faucet off and returns the rag to the sink. “I should get going.”

---