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An accented voice intones from within, “Vkhodite.”

Zevran opens the door, and we enter a dimly lit office where a man is seated behind a massive mahogany desk.

This must be Dragan. Dark hair, strong jaw, and ruthless expression. He’s somewhere in his thirties, wearing a dark suit and an aura of power and authority.

Dragan doesn’t stand when we come in, nor does he offer his hand. He simply watches us with heavy-lidded, unblinking eyes and waits.

Zevran pulls out a chair, settling me into it before taking his own seat beside me, his knee warm and solid against mine. “Dragan, this is Miss Cora Banks.”

“Miss Banks.” Dragan’s voice is low and smooth. “Tell me about the—”

“Dragan is grateful that you came here today, Cora.” Zevran cuts across him with an edge to his voice, giving the man behind the desk a hard, dangerous smile. “Aren’t you, Dragan?”

A suffocating chill descends on the room.

“Da,” Dragan replies slowly, his icy eyes never leaving Zevran’s face. “Thank you, Miss Banks.”

“Dragan has one or two questions for you,” Zevran continues meaningfully, his voice layered with quiet threat. “But he won’t keep us for long, and he will respect your privacy and your feelings.”

Zevran sits back and spreads his hand, palm up, on his thigh. When I place my smaller hand in his, he wraps his fingers around mine and squeezes, grounding me.

Dragan stares silently at Zevran for a long, tense moment before turning his cold gaze back to me.

“Miss Banks.” Dragan’s tone remains flat. “Tell me about the men who took you. What did they discuss in front of you?”

I’m caught off guard. I prepared for this differently. I’ve been rehearsing what I’d say about Viktoriya in my head all morning.

“I—the basement was—”

Dragan interrupts me smoothly. “I know about the basement, Miss Banks. Zevran has already provided that information. I wish to know what these men said to each other. What do you remember?”

I cast my mind back, desperate to give him something useful so I can turn the conversation back to what matters. “There were arguments sometimes. About money, maybe. But they didn’t talk to each other much when they came down into the basement.”

“Did they mention Corvale? Coldlake?”

I shake my head. “Most of the time they just kicked us and told us to stop crying.”

I vividly remember Viktoriya swearing in what was probably Russian at one of the men and getting slapped for it. I open my mouth to tell Dragan, but he’s already moving on.

“They transported you from one city to another. What did you overhear during those hours?”

“Nothing. I was drugged.”

Dragan doesn’t give me an outright look of disgust, but his silent displeasure fills the air around us.

I leap at the chance to get things back on track. “We were all drugged at some point. Most of us didn’t get another dose if we behaved, but Viktoriya was a fighter. She made things difficult for them. She wouldn’t back down.”

Dragan picks up a sleek gold pen. I think he’s making notes, taking down what I’m saying. It isn’t until I’ve been speaking for two full minutes that I realize he’s just drawing mindless lines on his notepad, not listening to a single word coming out of my mouth.

My voice dries up in my throat.

I suddenly realize why I’m here. I’m the only survivor Dragan can question. The other women went home to their families. Mentioning Viktoriya’s father to Zevran was just an excuse to get me in here, and everything I witnessed that mattered—everything terrible about what happened to Viktoriya and Emily, everything worth honoring—has no place in this room. All Dragan wants is intel on his enemies. Viktoriya fought those monsters every single day, but to Dragan, she’s unimportant.

I sit with my hands tightly clenched in my lap, feeling a burning ache in the back of my throat. I came here because Viktoriya matters. I came to make sure our suffering was heard, and I’ve failed completely.

I thought I was done with this kind of humiliation.

I wish I’d never come.