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I swallow hard, feeling my resolve waver for just a moment. Part of me wants to run from this room, pretend those days never happened. But I've never been one to hide from painful truths.

“I need to see them, Alex,” I say firmly. “I need to know exactly what happened while I was drugged. What they did to me. What they recorded.”

“Okay. But we stop the moment you say. No questions asked.”

Alex pulls out the chair for me, and I sink into it, the leather still warm from his body heat. His fingers move across the keyboard.

“I've sorted them chronologically,” Alex says, hovering over theEnterkey. “There are sixty-four images total.”

My throat tightens as he pulls up the file, and I watch his reflection in the dark monitor as he starts to leave the room. Without thinking, I reach out and grab his wrist.

“Wait.” My voice sounds smaller than I intend. “Don't go.”

His eyes meet mine in the reflection of the screen, surprise evident in his expression.

“I thought you wanted privacy,” he says softly.

I swallow hard. “I did. I do. But…” I trail off, struggling to articulate the rush of vulnerability tightening around my throat. “I changed my mind.”

Alex nods once, pulling up another chair to sit beside me. Not too close, but close enough that I can feel his steady presence. He doesn't touch me, doesn't offer empty platitudes about how everything will be okay. I appreciate that more than he could know.

“You control the pace," he says, gesturing to the keyboard. “Left arrow to go back, right to advance. Escape to close everything.”

I take a deep breath and pressEnter.

The first image fills the screen, and I flinch involuntarily. It's me, unconscious, on what looks like a medical table. My clothes are still on, but my arms are strapped down with leather restraints. My hair spills over the edge of the table, and there's a bruise forming on my temple where they must have struck me.

“This was a week after they took you,” Alex says quietly. “Based on the timestamp.”

I nod, unable to speak as I press the right arrow key. The next photo shows a man in surgical gloves checking my pulse, his face carefully turned away from the camera. Smart. The third image has me stripped down to my underwear, still unconscious, with monitoring equipment attached to my chest and arms.

“They were monitoring your vitals while you were sedated,” Alex explains, his voice clinically detached—a kindness, allowing me to process this as evidence rather than trauma. “Making sure you stayed alive.”

“How considerate,” I mutter, continuing through the images.

Each photo documents my captivity with meticulous precision. Some show me unconscious, others semi-conscious and slack jawed, clearly drugged. In several, masked men pose beside me like hunters with their trophy, though they're careful never to show their faces completely.

When I reach the twentieth image, my finger freezes over the keyboard. I'm awake in this one, frozen with terror, struggling against my restraints while a man holds what appears to be a branding iron near my exposed shoulder.

“They didn't,” I gasp, my hand instinctively reaching for my left shoulder.

“No,” Alex confirms. “They were staging it—psychological torture. Making you think they would brand you but never following through.” Alex's voice remains steady, but I notice the slight tightening of his jaw. “The next photos confirm it never happened.”

I press forward, my stomach churning as I see myself recoiling, tears streaming down my face as the branding iron hovers inches from my skin. My expression is raw, full of panic—but I have no memory of this moment. They’d stolen it from me.

“I look so…” I trail off, unable to find the word.

“Strong,” Alex finishes. When I turn to him, doubtful, he adds, “Even drugged and terrified, you’re still fighting. Your whole body is screaming defiance.”

I study the image again but only see a terrified version of myself.

The next series of images shows men I don’t recognize visiting my holding cell, each taking turns posing with me, some touching my hair or face with possessive gestures that make my skin crawl. “The Petrovs?”

“Yes, mid-level enforcers at best.”

“What about…?”

“Dmitri never appears,” I note, advancing through more photos.