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SAbrINA

The light slams on like a hammer to the skull.

I jerk upright with a strangled curse, blinking against the brutal glare slicing through my eyeballs.

I guess someone thinks sleep is a fucking privilege.

Judging by the weight of my eyelids and the heaviness in my bones, I must’ve gotten maybe two, three hours, tops.

The cheap pink scrubs I fell asleep in are a bit too big and are twisted around me.

The hospital style bed squeaks under me as I shove the blankets off and sit up, rubbing a hand over my face.

The room is almost bare, the walls an unforgiving white, the floor a cold slab of gray tile. There’s no window. Just a single door, a security camera bolted into the corner near the ceiling, its tiny red light blinking steadily at me like a heartbeat. Watching. Recording.

On a small steel table sits a tray—scrambled eggs, pale and fluffy.

Plain toast, no butter.

A handful of steamed nuts.

“Who eats damn nuts for breakfast?” I glance at the small bowl of blueberries and the cup of herbal tea, still steaming faintly. “What is this breakfast? It looks like a health nut’s fucking wet dream. For the record. I like donuts and coffee or pancakes dripping with maple syrup and spray cream alongside a pot of medium roast coffee, preferably vanilla flavored.”

My stomach churns at the thought of eating, but I know I have to. I’m not alone anymore. It isn’t just my life at stake.

I take a seat on the plastic chair that is as white as everything else in the room and notice a notepad and pen beside the tray.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” I hold it up to the camera. “Write a fucking memoire or journal my feelings?” I raise a brow. “How about this for a feeling. I feel like an American hostage and you’re all going to get your fucking asses kicked for this.”

Of course there’s no answer the camera is just there to observe me in my unnatural habitat like some sort of fucking primate.

Sighing, I force the food down, methodical and detached. Every bite tastes like cardboard, but I finish it anyway. I’ve barely swallowed the food when the door swings open with a thud echoing through the silence.

Two women in black tactical uniforms step inside. Their faces are hard, eyes expressionless. They are soldiers, not caretakers.

“You must shower!” the thinner one of the two commands in English.

I stand and wander over to them. As I near them the tubbier one shoves a pile of neatly folded clothes into my hands. They are wrapped in sterile see through wrappings. I flip through them and find an outfit that looks much like the scrubs I’m wearing, only pure white. The smaller bags contain thin white pants and a matching tunic — along with a basic sports bra and the kind of high-waisted cotton underwear that would make a Victoria’s Secret model cry. I hold them up with a dry look.

“Wow,” I mutter under my breath. “The pinnacle of Russian haute couture. Sexy as a brick.”

Neither woman reacts. Figures. Humor is wasted on the humorless. I’m all but shoved out of the room and dragged down a long corridor that sharply turns into another corridor reaching a room at the end of it.

The thinner guard pushes the door open and I step inside to find it’s a bathroom.

“So this is where the toilet is,” I say. “That’s quite a sprint if I get the runs from that horrible breakfast.”

The bathroom is as bare and unfriendly as the room I slept in. It is all steel fixtures, no mirror, no curtain for the shower head attached to the wall.

“Soap, shampoo, and clean teeth stuff are over there,” Tubby tells me while Skinny starts the shower as if I’m not capable of doing it. “Clean towels are on the hook by the shower.”

“Thanks?” I say, turning toward them where we stand staring at each other for a few seconds and they don’t look as if they’re about to leave. “You can go now. I know how to shower.”

“We stay,” Skinny tells me. “It’s orders.”

“So you’re just going to watch me shower?” I gape at them. “What are you afraid I’m going to steal the fucking soap?” I snort. “Or make a shank out of the toothbrush then hide it up my ass?”

The women don’t flinch. They just stare coldly at me.

“You have fifteen minutes.” Skinny looks at her wristwatch. “You must scrub, wash hair, and teeth.”

We have another staring contest for a few more seconds and I realize they really aren’t going to budge. I’m expected to strip and clean myself under their watchful eyes. The humiliation burns hotter than the water could ever hope to.

I turn my back to them, as I strip and toss the pink scrubs on the floor over my shoulder before stepping into the warm spray of the surprisingly strong shower. I wash, taking my time and giving them a good show.

When I’m done I towel myself dry and twirl a towel around my wet hair before padding over the sink, opening the new toothbrush, smearing some toothpaste brand I’ve never seen before onto the brush. As I put it to my mouth I hope it’s not laced with something. But my mouth tastes terrible from sleep and that dreadful gray breakfast I ate.

Seventeen minutes later I’m dressed with the white scrubs hanging loosely on my frame, swallowing my figure and making me feel even more like a prisoner. I tug the waistband higher, adjusting the pants to sit more comfortably above my hips, and suppress the urge to mutter another biting comment. No sense in poking the bear today. I need information more than I need to feel like I got the last word.

“I noticed there was no brush or comb,” I grumble, running my finger through the tangle of curls now bouncing damply around my face. “If you could get me one especially for curly hair please.”

They say nothing although I do see some akin to humor flash in Tubby’s eyes. Now that I’m walking beside her I can see that Tubby is younger than Skinny and around my age. Whereas Skinny looks to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Or just doesn’t know how to look after her skin.

The corridors are long, sterile, illuminated by cold fluorescent lights. Everything about this place is designed to strip away identity, humanity. It’s a place for subjects, not people and I feel like I’ve stepped into some bad futuristic or sci-fi movie.

After what feels like a maze of left turns and silent escorts, we reach a heavy metal door. One of the women raps twice, sharp and mechanical. The door clicks open, and I’m ushered inside.

And of course my supposed aunt, Yelena Zorin is waiting for me.

She sits at a plain table, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray suit that screams power and restraint. Her hair is pulled back in the same severe twist, and her cool gaze settles on me with the dispassion of a scientist studying a specimen under glass.

On the table before her rests three manila folders.

I don’t wait to be asked to sit, I just go ahead and take the seat across from her.

“Nice suit.” The sarcasm drips from my tongue. “Is that Wednesday’s shade of gray?”

She says nothing. Doesn’t roll her eyes or give a sigh. She simply sits there, watching me from across the table with that cool calm poise of hers. We regard each other across the table. Her eyes are impossible to read, like frozen lakes — deep and cold and utterly still.

“Good morning…” she glances at her wristwatch. “Sorry, afternoon to you too, Sabina. I hope you got a restful six hours of sleep?”

“Six hours?” I blink at her. I slept for six hours? It felt like no more than two at the most. “What is the time?” I ask, holding up my bare wrist. “Like the rest of my clothes and belongings you took my watch, which I’m going to want back. It was the last birthday present that…” I stop myself from saying more.

“It’s just after two in the afternoon,” Yelena’s words shock me. “I made sure we let you get a good six hours of sleep. Tonight you will go to bed at eleven. You will be woken at seven to have a shower and then breakfast at eight. We will begin working with you promptly at nine each day.”

“So I’ve been kidnapped by a Russian summer camp!” I say and her eyes narrow slightly. “You do know what a summer camp is, right?”

“I am not stupid, Sabina,” Yelena says almost defensively.

Oh, good she has a weak spot—her intellect. How interesting! I refrain from rubbing my chin like a movie villain summing up my target but I really want to because I’ve found a chink in miss icy queen’s armor. I plan to keep a close watch on her to find some more just in case I need some leverage when I’m trying to escape or defend myself against her.

“So when are you going to take me to the room to strap me in a chair attached to car batteries to try and shock information out of me?” I lean back, slide my legs out in front of me and fold my arms, going for I’m relaxed and bored pose. “Or are you going to start with ink blots?” I frown. “I have to warn you all I ever see are… well ink blots. I have no idea where people see butterflies, foxes, and so on.” I purse my lips. “I guess crazy people see crazy things.”

“We’ll get to testing that,” Yelena assures me. “But today we’re going to start with this.” She slides the folder toward me. “I thought you could learn about your family?”

I stare at the folder in distaste before sitting up and tap it with my index finger. “What is there?” I look up at her. “More Russian propaganda?”

“This is not some indoctrination center, Sabina,” Yelena tells me. “But there is proof of who your parents are.”

I hesitate, then flip it open.

The photographs inside steal the air from my lungs.

“These are your beginnings,” she says.

I can’t stop myself from pouring through them.

There are pictures of a young woman with brilliant, searching eyes and a defiant set to her jaw that I’d know anywhere—my mother. Only according to the writing beneath it, it’s Mariya at age eighteen.

Another one that catches my eyes is of a young man standing rigid in a military uniform and the name reads—Leonid.

They are Mariya and Leonid but look like Carla and Sol, my mother and father.

There are more photos of them. Photos of my father with a younger Yelena and a small baby. Photos of my mother with medals, holding up very impressive medical certifications.

“Jesus, she’s a doctor?” My eyes dart to Yelena.

“Mariya is much more than a doctor,” Yelena tells me, her eyes flashing with a mix of emotions I can’t quite fathom as they are gone just as quickly as they came. “She was a surgeon, a chemist, and a geneticist.”

“Then that’s definitely not my mother,” I tell her, my brow rising. “My mother is a trained prima ballerina who faints at the sight of blood.”

“Mariya was a prima ballerina and would’ve pursued a career as one had she not joined the RMSAD,” Yelena tells me. “And if she ever fainted at the sight of blood… she was acting. She dealt with plenty of blood and all sorts of other bodily fluids in our line of work.”

“What do you mean she worked at the RMSAD?” I can’t help myself, I want to know because if my mother is really this Mariya… I swallow the sudden lump in my throat as the feel of betrayal slices through me. I shake it off. I can have an existential crisis later. Now is not the time to lose my shit. “I take it this place is the RMSAD?”

“Yes, you are in a part of it,” Yelena confirms. “This is where all the science happens.”

My eyes narrow at her use of the word science. “What type of science exactly?”

She tilts her head slightly, assessing me. “We’ll get to that soon enough.”

“You seem to think we have a lot of time to get to things,” I tell her. “But, lady, I can assure you that I already have an army looking for me.”

“They won’t find you,” Yelena tells me confidently. “And I hope they don’t try because I would hate for you to lose the man you loved in a senseless battle he will never win. No matter who he is.”

Alarm shoots through me. Of course they know who Oleksi is. General Ergorov said he was not there to cause trouble with the Mirochins when the bastard plucked me away from Oleksi. I turn back to the photos to steer the conversation away from Oleksi and pick up one of my mother and father standing together on their wedding day.

Shock ripples through my fingertips as I know I can no longer deny the truth—well, to myself anyway. I won’t admit to the ice queen that I’m starting to believe her—not yet. Just in case this is still some sort of lie for some sick reason.

My fingers trace the picture. Were they really not the simple Vegas couple who juggled nightclub shifts and shady security jobs but Mariya Morozov and Leonid Zorin.

Ghosts from a country I never even knew I belonged to.

“I’ve never seen pictures of my parents when they were young,” I say before I can stop myself, my voice hard and brittle. “They always told us everything was lost in a fire. The house they bought together after they got married.”

Yelena nods once, like a teacher rewarding a student for remembering her lesson.

“That was true,” she says calmly. “But it wasn’t in America, if that is what you believed. It was here. In Russia.”

The floor under me shifts, invisible and violent.

“Are they really Russian?” I say, the words falling out like broken teeth. “They never had a trace of an accent.” Now that I think of it they never had a heavy American accent either.

“Born and bred,” Yelena confirms.

It takes everything in me not to flinch.

“How did their house burn down?” I don’t know why that’s the first question that pops into my mind. “Or should I ask why?”

She taps the folder with one long, manicured finger.

“Your mother had your father burn it the day after you were born,” she adds. “A distraction so they could flee the country and to make sure that whatever there was in the house that Mariya didn’t want anyone finding was destroyed.”

I let out a breath that feels like it’s tearing something inside me apart.

“They always said the fire took everything,” I mutter, bitter. “Guess they forgot to mention it wasn’t just bad luck but by design.”

Yelena’s mouth tilts—not quite a smile, not quite anything.

“In hindsight, I know they were protecting you,” she says, pausing for a moment and saying almost hesitantly, “and your sister.”

The thought of my sister stops me and while I do already know the answer I need her to say it.

“Why are you looking for my sister?”

“Because your mother and father stole her,” Yelena says without a flicker of emotion in her eyes. “From me. Lidiya is my daughter.”