CHAPTER 1

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
-Anton Chekhov

The first time she saw him, he was walking along Regent street, his hands in his coat pockets and his head down, deep in thought. She had stared at him for a minute, trying to register the face. The aquiline nose, the thin lips, the dark hair slicked in a sideways part. It was the intense expression on his face that gave him away and when he looked up, she knew.

The moment she said his name in her mind, he saw her and she was certain it was him. She turned her gaze downwards and crossed the street, the light flashing, indicating that the time to cross was over. She ran, her heart beating inside her chest, feeling as if it were about to burst out of her thick woolen coat. Her breath came out in bursts of steam in the air before her.

Alexa George stopped and ducked into a darkened alley, catching her breath. She felt sweat gather upon her brow and her breath came in heaves, the taste of bile filling her mouth.

It felt like a kick to the stomach, seeing him again. Seeing him alive. It had only been what, nine years? But she knew, deep inside her, that it felt like yesterday.

Alexa peered around the corner. The crowd of shoppers milled about, lost in their own lives, shopping for the latest accessory, not noticing her at all. She scanned the crowd, her eyes alighting upon each face but not seeing him. She took a few minutes to do so, as she caught her breath and forced herself to calm down, forcing her mind to think thoughts that had nothing to do with the man she had just seen.

What could she occupy her mind with? The latest fashion? Shoes? Puppies? It was useless. His face invaded her thoughts - alive, breathing, walking along Regent Street, his face cast downwards.

Lucas North. That was his name. Only he'd used a different name when she first met him in Moscow, a memory she barely remembered now for she could not afford to relive it, even for an instant. But against her will, the memories came, rushing through her mind, and she felt faint as she left the alley and began stumbling towards home.

She only remembered his face, the way he had looked at her from the darkened hallway of the club, his blue gray eyes searching her face, studying it as he suppressed an expression of shock. A glimpse of recognition.

Then, as the Russian next to him asked him which of his beauties he preferred, his expression turned into a sneer and for a moment, she thought that what she had first glimpsed in his eyes had been all an illusion. Blind foolish hope.

She had only been eighteen years old then. She had spent half a year in Moscow in a building that housed ten other girls like her in the upstairs apartment while the first floor bustled with business all day and night. A club where teen-age girls danced half naked for men of power, where Mikhael Lubienko conducted business. He was a peddler of information. And he was powerful.

Six months earlier, she had been vacationing with three girlfriends in Paris when one afternoon, Alexa found herself separated from the rest of them at a crowded street festival. When she managed to find someone who could help her, a man who spoke perfect French like she did and who wore something that looked like a police uniform, he shoved her into a dark van and changed her life forever.

He and his men took her and four other girls, huddled inside a dark van, all the way to Moscow. They were forced to take drugs, drugs that left them compliant and helpless. When they arrived in Moscow, she was forced to do things - bad things, terrible things. It was in Moscow that she told Mikhael that she didn't need to do the drugs, that she liked what it was he wanted her to do. She liked the sex, she told him though she knew it was a lie.

She needed to be aware of her surroundings. She needed to escape. Though Mikhael still injected her with the drugs, he began to do it less and less, and soon she was his favorite. She had always been his favorite, his English princess.

To Alexa, it was a much better fate than that of the other girls who, after taking the drugs for so long even just so they could dance for the men, and more when they needed to have sex with them, were left too addicted that they sought it, craved it, and would do anything to get it.

No, Alexa knew she needed to have her wits about her if she wanted to escape. She knew she had to keep her dream alive and fight and fight and fight.

The MI5 operative's name then was Dimitri. He had come in along with another man and she overheard them saying they were looking for "young ones", Dimitri pointing at her with that sneer on his face. Mikhael whistled for her and ordered her to take care of his guests though his attitude towards Dimitri was suspicious at first.

Mikhael could tell that Dimitri was not from around Moscow, that he had been abroad for some time. It was in the accent when he spoke Russian, but Dimitri had come in with excellent recommendations and that was enough for Mikhael. That, and money.

Mikhael was always suspicious of everybody, for it took just one person to dismantle his empire, though it would take an army to destroy all of it.

Alexa had danced in the main room for Dimitri first, watching him take a sip of the vodka as his eyes traveled up and down her barely sheathed body. The main room was crowded with men slumped on couches, drinking and watching the girls entertain them as they danced and slithered on poles installed throughout the room. Some of them were onstage, stripping to the loud music.

Yet some of the men gathered together in the corner, talking business, something that happened almost every night, the women here mere distractions from the business at hand.

Dimitri studied her as she danced in front of him, his brows often knitted in concentration as if he were thinking of something else. So unlike most men who came in here looking for some fun, Alexa thought. Mikhael walked over to talk to him about his recent trip to Ukraine, small talk among men as they watched her. When Mikhael left to attend to the group of men huddled in his favorite corner of the club, Dimitri returned his attention to Alexa. Then he beckoned her to come closer.

"I want you alone," he said in Russian. She took him into her assigned room to take care of him as she was supposed to do with all customers, but when she begun unbuttoning his shirt, he stopped her.

"No, kitten," he said in Russian, taking her hands and moving it away from his chest. "You do not need to."

She stared at him with a longing that she'd almost abandoned. Had it all been a dream - the look she had seen in his eyes when he had first seen her? As if he'd been searching for her and somehow found her. She lowered her eyes, feeling her face heat up, the feeling of shame rushing through.

"What is your name?" He asked and Alexa's eyes snapped up to meet his.

This time he spoke in English, his voice low as not to be heard by anyone close by, even with the door closed. The look in his eyes betrayed his cover, and for the first time since Alexa had been taken, she let her guard down, and prayed that this time, her intuition was right.

"Alexa George," Alexa said, staring at him, her eyes wide with trepidation. The sound of his voice sent shivers up and down her spine, not for the essence of it - low and rich, almost sensuous as the words slipped from his lips. No, his voice was filled with sadness, a realization that it was true. It was her.

Something thumped against the door outside and she jumped. The sound of people laughing, their footsteps fading as they walked the past the room filled the air that had become heavy with her fear.

His hand traced a bruise beneath her eye, hidden by make up but visible under the light. He could see that she was missing a tooth, thankfully not where it could be seen at first glance, though it did nothing to mar her beauty. He understood now why Mikhael called him his prized possession, his princess. His face clouded and he shook his head again when Alexa moved her hands towards his shirt the third time.

"You must let me do something," she whispered, glancing at the door behind her. Next door, they could hear the sound of moans and bodies slapping together. Alexa turned towards the cheap stereo next to the bed, raising the volume. "Sometimes, they come in to make sure we are doing our job."

Reluctantly, he let go of her hands, allowing her to slowly unbutton his black shirt, his skin creamy smooth underneath. She remembered seeing the pulse beating against his neck, his body tensing beneath her touch. She remembered now how she had fixated on that pulse, the throbbing of his skin. It was an anchor to the elusive ship she called hope.

The flash of a tourist's light bulb blinded Alexa for a moment and she staggered, suddenly remembering where she was. The tourist apologized and promptly forgot her, directing his partner to stand in front of the Victoria Secret store behind her. Alexa had walked in front of the camera just as he had clicked the shutter.

The crowds had thinned now as she walked the streets towards home, the memory filling her mind. The sidewalk before her seemed to fade as if she were dreaming, as if she were sleepwalking.

Alexa hurried towards her flat, slamming the door behind her and bolting the locks. It had been over nine years since that night and still, the memories made her weak, her stomach threatening to rebel at the thought of the things she'd had to do all those months imprisoned in Moscow. Those six months had aged her. It had taken away her innocence.

Alexa turned to face her reflection in the mirror on the foyer, her green eyes wide and scared. She never thought the sight of Lucas North now, so many years later, would bring back so much of the memories she'd tried so hard to suppress. She had thought him to be dead, believed him to be dead.

It was the only way to keep the memories from returning.

But as she stared at herself in the mirror, the memories all returned, unbidden and unforgiving. She began to cry. Seeing Lucas had opened that artery, and there was nothing she could do to stop the blood from flowing.

When she'd unbuttoned his shirt, Dimitri let her remove it, slipping it over his shoulders. It was almost gentle, like the movement of a tentative lover, but Alexa knew it was her nerves now, speaking in thunderous hope, praying that this man would finally be able to help her.

"They are suspicious of any foreigner who comes here. It's a miracle you managed to get in," Alexa said. "You have to be careful."
There was no shortage of supply when it came to little girls and teen-agers willing to travel where there was money, or sold by their own families. Or if they were beautiful enough, neither were they safe enough from Mikhael's men. Such had been Alexa's fate.

Mikhael had seen her with her friends in Paris and followed her for two days before making his move. She'd been a fool to believe in the saying "safety in numbers" for there was no such thing she knew now. All it took was a pickpocket at a street festival, unruly crowds and she had been lost without her purse, phone, or her passport.

Just then, the door burst open and they both spun around to see a burly man standing by the door, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"You like her, Dimitri?" Mikhael asked in Russian, and Dimitri responded in the affirmative in Russian. Mikhael took a step forward and brought his hand around Alexa's back, caressing it, and Alexa's skin prickled. She suppressed a shiver, keeping her eyes down. The room was too small for the three of them, the only pieces of furniture were the bed and a nightstand.

The room served its purpose for one thing only.

"We make sure that our guests enjoy their entertainment," Mikhael said, taking a swig from his whiskey. He leaned against the door. "You enjoy, eh? Or I just might think you're coming here to take my little princess away."

Dimitri laughed. "That's outrageous, Mik," he said, but the tone of his voice had shifted. His voice lowered, and his eyes hardened into slits as he looked at Alexa. Be strong, his eyes said.

Behind her, Mikhael crossed his arms over his chest and did not move from the door frame. "I forgot to tell you, Dimitri. I like to watch. Just to be sure you are not a queer - you understand me?"

The silence in the room was deafening. Alexa looked at Dimitri, her eyes imploring him to do what he needed to do. There was no other choice for either of them. Not now.

Dimitri grabbed Alexa by the waist and pulled her towards him. He yanked the straps of her flimsy summer dress off her shoulders, exposing her breasts. Alexa held her breath as she watched him change. This was work now, she thought. Work for him and for her. Maybe he had come for her but for now, her escape was not to be. For him, this act, this conscious violation of her was going to be part of his job, and she could see in his eyes that he was repulsed by it.

He was cold and methodical in his actions, and Alexa pulled herself out of her body, the way she always did when she had to do the things Mikhael and his men made her do. Only this time, she kept getting dragged back, forced to look into Dimitri's blue-gray eyes as they penetrated her very core.

Mikhael stayed for the entire performance, for that was what it was - a performance, at times savage as Dimitri's anger made its way into his lovemaking, as if such a word could be used for it. The entire time he had stared into her eyes and she had stared back, not wanting to let go of his gaze, for fear that he might falter in his unspoken promise and not come back for her. He had become her beacon, that light in the darkness, a glimmer of hope amidst so much pain and uncertainty.

When Mikhael finally left, shutting the door behind him, Alexa collapsed over Dimitri, the tears spilling down her face. She cried for a few minutes as he held her, yet not against his body. No, he couldn't let her be that close to him right now. He thought of Elisabeta, safe in London.

Yet he could not let go of Alexa as she sobbed quietly. Not yet.

"Come back for me," she said. "Whoever you are, come back for me."

Someone laughed right outside the door and Dimitri pushed her away and Alexa tumbled onto the bed. He got dressed in silence, his back to her. She wondered then what he had been thinking, if he was married, and had children. She wondered if he was regretting what had just happened between them. She still didn't know who he was. Alexa only was aware of that feeling that he had been sent to look for her, but a feeling was not a guarantee of freedom, and she felt her hope sink.

She kept thinking about it, feeling her face hot with her tears long after he left the room, leaving her a few bills on the bed, knowing that if he hadn't, it would have aroused suspicion.

A few times since that first encounter, she found herself waiting, her eyes glued to the door, hoping he'd walk in. It would be five days before the officials would come for her. And when they did come with a warrant and under escort of Russian police, Mikhael was livid with rage, demanding to know how anyone had known about her, his English princess.

Alexa didn't know Dimitri's real name till a year later, when her father, a high-ranking Embassy official, let it slip that the man who had been sent to find her had been captured by the Russians. Alexa remembered how her father had broken down then. Nathaniel George had known Harry Pearce since their college days, and had begged the head of the Counter Terrorism department to help him find his daughter, who had disappeared in Paris.

It was a request Harry could not refuse. Alexa George was also his god daughter.

It would take more than four months before they'd receive a lead and when Harry finally did, that a girl matching Alexa's description had been spotted at a Moscow nightclub, he sent Lucas North to find her. It had taken Lucas almost a month to find her, conducted on his own while he was in the midst of a highly classified operation for Section D. The order had come from Harry, and it had been done as a favor to a friend, a trusted superior.

Three weeks later, Alexa was on a plane back home. Her father had personally thanked Lucas for the return of his daughter though Alexa had never met him. But when Lucas himself disappeared in the midst of another covert operation in Moscow almost a year later, there was nothing her father or anyone could do to help the man who'd brought him his daughter back.

The following year, her father died of cancer. Since losing Alexa, the guilt of not being able to find his only daughter for six months had left her father feeling impotent, his power, wealth and influence useless against the men who had taken his daughter away from him. The guilt had eaten him whole, a cancer that devoured him from the inside.

Alexa had watched his life ebb away, and just like that, he was gone and she was alone in the world. Her mother had died in a car accident ten years earlier, hit head-on by a drunk driver who had died as well.

She wondered what would become of her, but Harry had stepped in and helped her , giving her names of psychologists she could talk to if she wanted, and when that did not work out, he gave her the name of someone who could teach her how to handle a gun after he found out through the Grid that she'd attempted to purchase an unlicensed weapon off the streets. Not that Harry could blame her.

She had never felt safe since Paris. She slept with a gun beneath her bed, and when she left the house, she carried one in her purse. She no longer had friends with whom she could carry normal conversations with. Word had gotten around about what happened to her in Moscow and instead of happy faces, she saw their eyes filled with pity, and sometimes, morbid curiosity. Did she like it, all that sex and violence?

Why didn't she try to escape?

Alexa wished she could tell them that she had tried, twice. They'd broken her nose, kicked her teeth in, and she'd endured cigarette burns throughout her back as punishment. She'd been one of the lucky ones. Three of the girls who had tried to escape with her had simply disappeared, and when word of bodies floating in the river came on the news, a mere blip of chatter in the airwaves, she knew instantly what had happened to them.

Mikhael had told her that he spared her because she was his English princess. He would be his forever. It was then that Alexa had decided to kill herself, but two days later, Lucas had appeared.

Since her return to England, things were never the same again, just as she was no longer the same Alexa George who had left for Paris with friends, laughing at the airport and eager to see the world. It was easy to fix the outside scars - the nose, the teeth, the cigarette burns. But there was no way to fix the horrors she had seen and experienced. There was no shutting the movie that played inside her head night after night.

And with Lucas believed to be imprisoned in Moscow, she feared for the life that he lived now - if he were still alive. The look of his eyes, haunted by the thoughts of what she had endured in that awful place, had been tragic enough. It was yet another movie that played inside her head, tormenting her just as it had tormented her father.

She'd asked Harry what was being done for Lucas but he hadn't given her an answer. Instead he had looked away, and since then had only seen him once a year, when he'd accompany her to visit her parents grave on her father's death anniversary.

Three years later, Alexa believed Lucas dead for it was easier to think that his soul was finally at peace. And each year, she lit a candle on the day she met him, to thank him for giving her her life back - whatever was left of it.

Yet as she stared at her reflection on the mirror, a new movie played inside Alexa's head. Lucas North was alive. She could still the see the expression on his face when he'd looked up and caught her gaze, his eyes registering her, seeing her.

Lucas North was broken.