Third Person POV
It had been days—weeks—maybe even months. Time had become a blur, an endless loop of darkness and faint light that never seemed to resolve into anything meaningful. For Kyla, the first 48 hours felt like a lifetime on their own, and everything after had melded into a dull haze of hunger, cold, and despair. She couldn't say exactly how long she'd been here, but it felt like a goddamn eternity.
Her father had always told her to go down swinging. If you're backed into a corner, you fight like hell, Kyla. You're a Volkov. You don't break. Those words echoed in her head, a stubborn mantra that kept her from crumbling completely. In the beginning, when they first threw her into this nightmare, she clung to those words like a lifeline.
During the first week, she had refused to eat. The food—if it could even be called that—reeked of chemicals, a bitter tang that burned her nose. She knew something was wrong with it. And she was right. She watched the other girls, listless and dazed, barely able to hold their heads up, and realized: they were drugging the food. Sedatives, maybe something stronger. It was easier to handle them when they weren't fully there—when they didn't fight back.
Her resistance hadn't gone unnoticed. On the third day, they came for her. Two of them. Big, faceless men with gloved hands and dead eyes. They pinned her down like she was nothing more than an animal, her screams bouncing uselessly off the concrete walls. One forced her mouth open while the other shoveled food in, gagging her until she choked and swallowed. They didn't stop until the plate was empty.
Kyla spent the rest of that day curled up in the corner of the filthy room, her stomach heaving, the drug-induced fog creeping into her mind. But even then, she fought. She bit her tongue to keep herself awake, nails digging into her palms to focus on the pain.
Eventually, she learned to pick her battles. Survive first, she told herself. Fight when it matters.
The other girls—they were a chorus of lost souls. Kyla learned their names when she could. Anna. Maria. Sophie. Names that felt small and fragile, whispered like secrets in the dark. Some of them had stories—half-told fragments of lives they'd been stolen from. Anna had been snatched outside a nightclub, too drunk to notice the van pulling up behind her. Sophie's family never paid the ransom. Others didn't speak at all, glassy-eyed and skeletal, their silence punctuated only by shallow, wheezing breaths. Those were the ones with track marks, the ones who spent their nights slumped in corners, trembling and mumbling to ghosts only they could see.
Kyla hated it here—hated them all—but mostly, she hated herself. For not escaping. For not fighting harder.
She was the baby in the room, the youngest—barely a woman, yet not a child. But that didn't matter here. Here, youth was a currency, beauty a weapon. They called her "pretty" with voices that scraped like sandpaper, their leering grins curling like smoke through the cracks in her resolve. Every glance felt like a hand pressed too close, clawing at her skin, taking pieces of her they hadn't earned.
The others were young, too. Kyla had studied their faces—bruised, hollow, haunted. Some of them sat hunched over, their shoulders curved in as if trying to disappear into themselves. Others just stared, their gazes flat and empty, the weight of all they'd seen dimming the last flickers of life in their eyes. Their battles were already lost, and the scars of surrender lingered on their broken frames. Kyla wondered how long it would take before she looked like that—before the hollow feeling in her chest became everything she was.
But Zef wouldn't let her break. Not yet. He paraded her like a rare diamond, his golden goose. She was untouchable, he'd made sure of it—hands off, eyes only. His men knew better than to challenge him on that rule; the bruises he'd dealt out for far lesser offenses were a silent warning. Dimitri Volkov's daughter was not to be handled like the rest.
She wasn't just another girl. She was leverage. A bargaining chip wrapped in fragile porcelain skin. The sole heir of a man the world despised—her father's name was synonymous with blood, with power, and with cruelty. Dimitri Volkov didn't just have enemies; he had an army of men who dreamed of ruining him, of tasting revenge. Zef understood this. He knew that hatred had its price, and Kyla was the key to unlocking it.
She could see it in Zef's eyes sometimes, that calculating glint as he weighed the possibilities. Would he auction her off to the highest bidder? There were men—thousands, maybe tens of thousands—who would spend fortunes for the privilege of standing in a room with Dimitri Volkov's stolen bloodline. To see her, to claim her, to shatter what her father had built.
But then there were other times—darker moments—when Zef's gaze lingered too long, and his smile sharpened at the edges. Those were the moments that turned Kyla's blood to ice. He would tilt his head, watching her with something like fascination, as though she were an exotic creature trapped behind glass. She could almost hear his thoughts, whispers she wasn't meant to catch.
Why sell her when he could keep her?
Why give away a treasure he could own forever?
A wife. A trophy. A queen to stand beside a king of filth.
The thought made her stomach churn, her skin crawl. She would rather die. But death wasn't an option here—at least not yet. Zef had made that clear. There was no escape, no end that would come easily. He would decide her fate, one way or another, and every path she could imagine ended in ruin
Still, Kyla couldn't let herself slip—not yet. She repeated the same words in her mind like a prayer, the only prayer she knew. You're a Volkov. Her father's voice, rough and unforgiving, echoed in her head. You don't break. You don't bow.
But in this room, surrounded by eyes that saw her as nothing more than a prize to be claimed, Kyla wondered how much longer she could hold on, and until she would be claimed and marked.
Her mind was foggy, the drugs beginning to wear off her mind becoming her own again. All of her rebellion had gained her a seat next to Zef, on the floor sitting on a dog bed. Some girls who would pass through the room would shook looks- pity- jealousy- anger.
It was the same routine over and over again. Drugged, dressed up like a whore, forced to parade around for men who bought girls.
Her mind was foggy, the drugs beginning to lose their grip, like a thin veil lifting from her thoughts. The world came back to her in fragments—shadows moving, the scrape of boots against concrete, the faint hum of music filtering through the walls. Her thoughts, sluggish at first, began to sharpen, becoming her own again. The fog was always worse after they forced the drugs on her, but she'd learned to wait it out. It was the only way to see clearly, to hold on to herself for just a little longer.
Her rebellion—her refusal to break—had earned her a spot beside Zef. He called it a reward, but it was no better than a punishment. He made her sit on the floor, curled up on a filthy dog bed like an animal at his feet. Sometimes he'd pet her head absently, his fingers tangling roughly in her hair as if she belonged to him. She hated it, hated how powerless she felt beneath his touch.
The other girls would pass through the room, fleeting glimpses of what Kyla feared she would become. Some cast quick, pitying glances her way, their eyes darting down as though they were ashamed to look too long. Others glared at her with sharp edges of jealousy, anger. To them, she was special—Zef's favorite. Untouched. They didn't understand that "special" was its own kind of curse.
It was always the same routine. A cycle, endless and cruel. Drugged, dressed up like a doll—tight dresses that didn't quite fit, heels too high to walk in without stumbling. They painted her face in harsh lines of color, red lipstick smeared onto lips that didn't want to smile. They made her parade herself like a piece of meat in front of men who bought girls like her, men who didn't see people—just bodies with a price tag.
She'd seen it all. The way some of the men would inspect the girls like livestock, tilting their chins up, running fingers along their arms to check for marks or bruises. For some, the scars were a selling point. For others, perfection mattered—skin unbroken, soft, and smooth, untouched except for the brands carved into their flesh.
The tattoos haunted Kyla. She hadn't been marked yet, but she'd seen the others—numbers inked into skin like barcodes. Some wore roses on their wrists, or crowns at the base of their necks. Ownership symbols, branding them as property. She remembered the hollow-eyed girl with a serpent curling up her ankle, the ink so black it looked like it had been burned into her skin. The snake meant she belonged to someone crueler than Zef, someone the girls whispered about in terror—the Snake. Kyla didn't know his real name, but she didn't want to.
She'd also learned what happened to the ones who disobeyed. A scar here, a bruise there, but worst of all—the knife. She'd seen one girl returned to Zef with a name carved into her shoulder, jagged and raw, her sobs echoing off the walls for days. "You think you're free? You're not. You're ours," one of the men had said, kicking her into a corner like a broken toy.
Kyla refused to let that be her fate, but how much longer could she hold out?
The room reeked of sweat, stale perfume, and cheap alcohol—a mix so strong it made her stomach churn. The men who paraded through this place weren't always rough. Some wore suits and had soft voices, pretending to be kind, pretending to offer "freedom" if you were obedient enough. But Kyla knew better. She'd seen those same men leave the room with a girl only to return hours later, their smiles darker, their pockets lighter.
Her hands clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms as she sat on that disgusting dog bed. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to fight, to spit in Zef's face, to run—but where would she go? There were locks on the doors, cameras in the corners, and guards who treated escapees as sport. Kyla had heard the stories about girls who'd tried to run. Some were dragged back kicking and screaming, their hair hacked off as a punishment. Others just… vanished. No one said where they went, but everyone understood.
Her mind drifted back to the mirror they made her stand in front of earlier that day. She remembered the hollow reflection staring back—her face powdered and painted to look perfect, but her hazel eyes betrayed her. Her body was still her own, unmarred for now, but she knew it wouldn't last. Zef was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment
And then what? Would he sell her to the highest bidder? Or would he brand her first, lay claim to her with ink that would stain her skin forever?
She swallowed hard, forcing the thought away. Not yet. Not yet.
For now, she stayed still, quiet. Her father's words echoed in her mind, a whisper of defiance against the dark. You're a Volkov. You don't break.
But as she sat there on the cold floor, her knees drawn to her chest, Kyla couldn't stop wondering: How much longer can I survive before I do?