“Why has she returned?” he demanded. “I did what Master wanted. I obeyed.”

The guard responded, “Then I guess he wants you to do it again,” and with that he walked away, leaving us alone together in the cell. I stepped back until my back rested closely against the wall.

My stomach rolled at the tone of his voice. I did what Master wanted. I obeyed …

I squeezed my eyes shut at the hurt those harsh words brought. Then I felt him move past me. I opened my eyes and saw 901 walk back to the darkened section of the cell and commence his exercises. Though this time they were done with much more aggression.

I worked my way along the wall of the cell, then sank down into the corner I had slept in last night. A pit had caved in my stomach at his angry rejection.

901 was a cold, tough-minded warrior. I knew this. I could see this clearly, yet I was hurt also, because this wasn’t my choice, either. I had been ordered here. Ordered to serve him by Master. Like him, I had no choice but to obey.

I clasped my hands together on my raised knees as they began trembling with fear. My gaze fell to the bracelet around my wrist. I fought back tears when I thought of how, sometime tonight, it would inject me with a drug and 901 would have to take me.

I risked a glance to him panting heavily across the room. He was now on his back. His knees were raised as he curled himself into his torso, his abdominal muscles flexing and bulging at the action. When I thought of the drugs that would soon flood my veins, I wished that he would just let me be. A hollow feeling caved in my chest, and this time I prayed that he’d leave me writhing on the floor. Last night I had heard the warrior across the hall tell 901 that if he left me, I could die.

I thought back to the past few weeks trapped under Master’s ever-changing moods, his false affection and now being forced to serve 901 as some kind of punishment to his disobedience. More and more, I felt myself wanting to be left alone. Jailed with a male that I repulsed, I scanned the dank, dark cell. In doing so, I felt a peaceful sensation take root in my heart at the thought of never waking up again once the drugs had taken their evil hold.

A sound at the cell door made me look up. A guard was there, opening the door for an old chiri female who held a tray of food with trembling hands. My eyes widened at the mountain of different foods and the large pitcher of water.

The chiri entered silently and left the food on the floor. She turned without ever meeting my eyes. With a deep exhale, 901 jumped to his feet, cracking his thick neck from side to side as he kept his eyes straight forward.

He walked to the food and dropped to sit in the floor. Without pause, he dived into the pile of food. I watched as he raced through his meal. He had so much food that my mind boggled. I had only ever been fed the tiniest of meals. My stomach growled as I watched him wolf his food down.

901 paused when this sound filled the large room. I blushed in embarrassment when he flicked his harsh eyes my way, a strand of his blond hair falling over his forehead with the quick movement. I didn’t know why, but that fallen piece of light hair made him look almost … approachable?

For a split second, he did not look like the hardened warrior I knew him to be.

901’s cheek twitched in annoyance as my stomach growled again. Dropping his food, he cursed, “Whore.”

Without thinking, I snapped my head up and responded, “Yes, I am a whore. One who wishes she wasn’t handed off to you.”

As the words left my mouth, my eyes widened. Lifting my fingers to my lips, I paled. Out of the corner of my eye I caught 901’s head tip to the side. When I looked up, his angered expression had disappeared, replaced by one of shock.

I replayed his words in my head, then my response. I racked my brain, searching for the answer. Because it wasn’t the native language of Master or the guards. It wasn’t the native language Maya spoke to me in. It was another. A language I knew, one that felt as natural as breathing but one that I had no idea of how or why I could.

I swallowed, shaking my head in confusion at what I had spoken, when 901 said gruffly, “You speak Russian?”

“I am Russian,” I replied automatically. I shifted on the spot, my hand covering my mouth in shock. I dropped it, and whispered, “I am Russian?” My eyebrows pulled down in confusion. I looked up to find 901 watching me—very carefully. Only this time there was something else flickering in his unyielding gaze.

Acceptance.

“Russian,” I hushed out. I inched forward and asked, “What is Russian?”

901 angled his body to face me. Lifting his hand, he tapped it over his chest, right over his heart. “This is Russian. I am Russian.”

He stilled, then used his hand to point between us. “You and I, right now, are speaking Russian.”

It took me a moment to realize that I was still speaking to him in this not-so-strange language. Then, as if plunged back into a dream, I pictured the scarred male from my visions—speaking to me in Russian. You are more than a number … He had spoken to me in Russian. I will free you from this life, I promise. Just hold on …

The male had held out his little finger, and I had linked mine within his. I promise, I had replied. Then everything went dark.

I blinked away the dream. Addressing 901, I said, “A male I dream of spoke to me in this language. He told me he would come for me. He told me he would free me.” A surge of emotion welled within me. I held up my little finger and I choked out, “He held my finger and made me promise.”

“Who was he?” 901 rasped.

“I don’t know.” I tapped my head. “I see him in my dreams, but I don’t know who he is.”

901 was silent for several minutes as he stared at the wall beside me, lost in his thoughts. I sat back, tucking myself in the corner of the cell, trying my hardest to remember something, anything. But nothing came.

“It’s a country,” 901 said, breaking through my silence.

I looked up at him. His eyes remained straight forward. “What?”

901 blinked, then faced me. “Russia. It’s a country. We are in Georgia. He pounded his fist over his heart again. “Russia is my home. I am Russian.” He spoke the words almost like he was trying to convince himself about what he was saying …

As if he was also trying to make himself remember.

My stomach flipped, a mixture of sympathy and excitement. 901 then held out his finger. Pointing to me, he said, “You are Russian, too. The way you speak the words … it is not learned. It comes from your heart.”