Chapter Text
There was no hiding from the sun. Sweat beaded your forehead as you pushed through the market square. Everything seemed too bright. You distracted yourself with a crate of oranges, running your fingers over the bumpy peel and squeezing them gently. After discerning which were of the best quality, you placed three in your wicker basket and smiled at the man behind the stall as you handed over several coins.
You came to the market to escape your room. But the hot air was stifling, making it difficult to breathe. Now you wanted nothing more than to escape the heat. You didn't belong in any environment, it seemed.
All energy dripping from your body, you turned to go back the way you had came.
General Kirigan had left the Little Palace on business. He'd taken several of his army with him, including yourself. Wandering the back alleys, you pondered the question: had he invited you as a member of his army or as something more?
Your hands idly turned the oranges in their baskets. You'd worked your way up the ranks. You weren't Grisha yourself but you'd studied international relations all your life and it only took a few years before you were appointed diplomat.
You met him the day you were due to make your first important speech at the Little Palace. He had such a powerful aura that the moment he walked into the room, your entire attention was commanded by him. You couldn’t understand what was happening to you. This man’s presence made you feel something you’d never felt before. You were so desperately hungry for him to acknowledge you.
Those obsidian eyes finally – finally – looked at you when the time came for your speech. Gripping the podium to keep from shaking, your knuckles turned white. Your words were off-kilter as they pushed past the swarming nerves in your stomach. But it didn’t take long for your practice to kick in and your speech fell into an easy rhythm. It was difficult to keep on track when your eyes constantly gravitated back to General Kirigan. What made it even more difficult was the small smile playing across his lips, the slight upward tilt of his jaw. He was… proud?
Giddy, you left the hall as soon as you'd finished the speech. You couldn’t socialise after that and pretend that your feelings weren’t eating you up inside. The only thing you could handle was solitude.
You came to regret that decision. Because for days, growing to weeks, you were haunted by a craving for his eyes to find yours again. You wanted to see him smile one more time and for you to be the reason why.
One long sleepless night, you found yourself restlessly walking the corridors, hoping your thoughts would fall away from you with each step. You didn't get your wish. Your thoughts materialised.
General Kirigan turned the corner.
You weren't sure how it happened. You weren't sure whether it was the best or the worst thing that happened to you. But you suffered many more sleepless nights, entangled in his dark sheets.
You couldn't believe it. Your hands roamed his raven locks, his hands explored every inch of your body, memorising each dip and curve. You moved with perfect synchronisation, slotting together perfectly. Everything seemed to make sense. It felt so right. You belonged.
But during the day, you would pass in the hallways and he wouldn't so much as glance at you. Completely devoid of recognition. Of course, you understood at once, you were nothing more than a night call. You had been delusional. Those nights where he stayed up listening to you talk about your life, your worries, your dreams, they had been nothing more than two people who couldn't sleep.
Alekesander with his stupidly beautiful face never loved you. And Aleksander with his ridiculously dulcet voice never would.
Footsteps quickly approached from behind. An arm wrapped around your neck.
“Alekshmnr-!”
You tried to call out his name but was muffled by a rag pressed against your mouth.
You thrashed your body and kicked at the legs of the man behind you but within a few moments your nose began to burn and your vision was stolen to darkness.
***
There was nothing. Then gradually, the thrum of an engine.
Head lolled to one side, you toed the line of consciousness. That was until the van drove over a bump, jolting you awake. Your eyes flashed open but your vision was obscured: a sack had been pulled over your head. You went to remove it but your hands were bound behind your back.
Panic shot through your blood. You couldn’t understand what was happening.
“Is she Grisha?” A voice asked, coming from the front of the van.
“She didn’t raise her hands to attack,” someone answered.
The voice replied disappointedly, “We won’t get much for her then.”
You hadn’t thought it possible but your panic doubled. Slavers. They clearly didn’t know who you were. No one in their right mind would think to kidnap the Darkling’s diplomat… Who were you kidding? A diplomat was replaceable. They were right. You weren’t anything of value.
Whatever fate awaited you, no one would come to your rescue. You curled your knees to your chest.
After a long while, the roads grew jagged and rough. Overgrown hedges swished across the van doors and stones rattled beneath the tyres. Then the van came to a slow halt.
Adrenaline had been pumping through your veins for so long that it felt like your limbs were made of static electricity. Men rustled around you, getting out of the van, then strong hands hooked beneath your arms and dragged you out the back. You tried once more to struggle free. But no one believed you’d be able to fight him off, especially not yourself.
The breeze disappeared from your skin once you were pushed inside a building. Heavy doors closed behind you and then the bag was ripped from your head.
Blinking away the painful glare, you assessed your surroundings. The walls were browning and the paint was chipping away. Not much decorated the room, just cardboard boxes strewn around. Whatever this place used to be, it was certainly abandoned now.
Before you could decipher any more, a hand on your back shoved you forwards. You were pushed into a makeshift meeting room. Your eyes whipped around, trying to soak in as many details as possible. A table - covered in documents - sat in the middle with rat-bitten chairs scattered around it.
The men filed into the room. You counted six of them.
The man with the broadest shoulders made a ‘come hither’ gesture to a man at his side. The broad man was handed a needle containing a milky orange liquid.
Your eyes widened and your mouth let loose a “no.”
You’d heard horror stories about it before, you’d even lost friends to it: jurda.
You flailed once more, stronger now the sense of threat was striding towards you. From behind, a man clutched your shoulders, keeping you in place. That made it easy for the broad man to jab the needle into your neck and push the syringe.
Jurda grasped you quickly, spreading through your limbs and turning them to mush. It even reached your brain, slowing your thoughts and making it impossible to think coherently. And yet the panic remained.
Another order was barked, “Strip her.”
“No!” The words sloshed from your mouth.
The straps of your summer dress slid from your shoulders and the rest of the garment fell to the damp concrete. Even with the jurda, you could feel the cold prick at your skin, causing your hairs to stand on end.
The broad man gave a subtle nod of his head. Frowning, you weren’t able to figure out the meaning. It started to become clear when the man behind you gave you a sharp shove down onto a chair. And then a man dropped down in front of you. Placing one hand on each of your thighs, he pried your legs apart as far as they would go. Then he crawled between them so you were unable to close them again. Not that your limp muscles could put up much protest.
He dragged your pants down your legs and left them at your ankles. You’d never felt so exposed in your life, so vulnerable. You couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your vulva, on display for all to see. And you couldn’t bring yourself to look at the expressions on the men’s faces, you were sure you’d find pleasure there, glinting in their eyes.
Bile rose to your throat. Grimy, unfamiliar hands were slithering up your thighs. Fingers traced your vulva and pried your labia apart. He dipped his head in for a close inspection, breathing faintly onto your sensitive skin. Your mind thought back to the man whose hands, whose face, had been there only a few nights ago. Tears stung your eyes but they didn’t fall.
Withdrawing his hands, he stated – devoid of emotion, as if he’d done this a hundred times before - “Not a virgin.”
“Alright.” The broad man gave another nod.
Your pants were pulled back up and then you were hauled to standing and dragged away. Your feet staggered one after the other. You couldn’t even dream of fighting them off anymore. It was hard enough fighting to keep your face from hitting the floor.
You were barely able to process your surroundings. The lines demarcating the ceiling from the wall seemed to shift and blur. You had to squint to have any hope of figuring out where you were. All you could make out was that you were in a corridor lined with doors. One of the doors pushed open. Before you could refocus your eyes, you were thrown onto a bed. The change in orientation made the room swim violently.
You tried to wriggle into a position where it didn’t feel like the world was spinning but firm hands grasped you, keeping you still. The ropes were removed from your wrists and then quickly replaced by metal chains spreading your arms out to each bed post. You felt like a frog being pinned down for dissection.
There was movement in your periphery and you turned your head to see a man sliding an IV drip into your wrist. More jurda. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do jurda after what had happened to your friends. The tears fell freely now, dripping down the sides of your face and wetting the pillow. Jurda was the least of your concerns.
The men gathered around you, staring at their job well done. You could no longer make out any details, just six faceless bodies looming over the bed.
“Please,” you begged weakly.
They turned their backs and the door closed behind them, leaving you shrouded in darkness.