Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
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16 April 1935
Rostov-on-Don, Soviet Union
Everything hurt. The sharp pangs in her stomach sent ripples of agony through her entire body. All Sveta wanted to do was curl up into a ball and make the aching cramps stop. They'd not fed her more than a few slices of bread in two days. The men had been more generous with water. They didn't want her dead.
She could smell the mold. The wood beneath her bare feet had faded to grey long ago. Cobwebs filled the dark corners of the attic they had pushed her into. Sveta spent her day just praying that whatever had made the webs would stay the hell away from her.
Her wrists ached. The ropes that held them together were tight, the fibers biting into her skin. Based on the circular window at the far end of the attic, they'd taken her ten days ago. Ten days of rotting away with the floorboards. Ten days of shivering in her dirtied slip and taking twice-daily trips into the house to use the bathroom. Bruises littered her arms from the harsh treatment.
Sveta's matted, dark hair fell in her face each time she moved. She missed her mom. All she wanted was to hug her, feel her warm cheek against her own, and her soft, gentle voice. She just wanted her mom.
The men who took her would face her father's wrath. That much she knew. No one could touch her and not suffer. Premier Stalin would see to that. Her father would get her out.
Sveta shifted. Her muscles screamed as she straightened out her legs. A few cuts on the skin had finally scabbed. Anger surged through her. How dare they! Sveta wanted to scream. And then she wanted to sob. She ached for her mother.
The key turned in the door to her right. Sveta pulled her legs back in and put the angriest expression on her face she could muster. After a few moments of metal jiggling, the door opened. The man who came through was unfamiliar.
He had a large dark mustache and a small beard. Dark eyes glared down at her from a face she could only say looked murderous. His shoulders were wide, and he stood tall. Sveta spent all her energy trying not to sob.
"Sveta, correct?" he asked. His voice was softer than she anticipated, but to her ears it stung. The man walked over to her. "Sveta-"
"I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, and you will let me go," she snipped. "My dad will see you hanged, or shot, or, or sent to the gulag! If you let me go, I might speak to him on your behalf so you only suffer one of those!" Even as she spoke, she shook. Sveta knew her threats were hollow.
The man knew it too. "Ah, Sveta. Child. All we want is your father."
"He'll come. He'll come and he'll see you dead. The Premier will send him troops, and he'll come and kill all of you! You, you traitors. You'll burn for touching me."
His fist slammed into her face. Sveta screamed, whimpering as her mind spun. Her bound hands flew to her face. But the next strike never came. Instead, she felt something dripping from her burning cheek. Removing her hands, her eyes widened as her blood reddened her pale fingers. Her breathing faltered.
