Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
She stayed curled on the cot, small and innocent, staring at me as though the world had tilted and she couldn’t find level ground anymore. I watched her for a moment longer. Zoya was scared. It was bone-deep fear, one she’d been sheltered from in the worst way. She’d been wrapped in luxury while the truth rotted underneath.
But all was broken open now by things she’d never been allowed to face. And yet… my gut whispered something quieter. She truly, genuinely, wanted her father gone. Not just for the women he’d destroyed but also for herself. For the cage he dressed up as protection.
I didn’t trust her fully. Not yet. But I trusted my gut that she wasn’t a threat. This time, I reached for the handcuffs and unlocked one wrist, then the other. The metal clinked softly as it fell away, leaving angry red marks circling her skin like cruel bracelets. She stared at her freed hands as though they belonged to someone else.
“Come on,” I said quietly and stood, holding out my hand for her. But Zoya didn’t take what I offered right away. She looked at me as if it were a trick, but after a few seconds, she slowly unfolded herself from the cot, still not taking my hand.
Her legs were unsteady beneath her, and I adjusted my coat on her shoulders without thinking. She flinched at the brief contact of my fingers but didn’t pull away. I led her out of the cold office, through a narrow, dimly lit corridor, then down a heavy steel staircase that most people would never find unless they already knew where to look. The kind of staircase that doesn’t appear on any blueprint. Two flights down and past the first sublevel with its meat hooks and drain grates. And deeper still to the room I’d had renovated two years ago after a critical hit left me bleeding for three days in a place that smelled like rust and death.
I’d paid cash to a crew who asked no questions, men who knew how to pour concrete, run ventilation, and keep their mouths shut. I told them one thing only: make it livable. Nothing more.
It was buried deep underground, far below street noise and any hope of natural light reaching it. Made of thick concrete walls that were double-insulated and soundproofed to where a scream twenty feet away would never reach the surface. I had the door installed with reinforced steel and had a manual bolt installed on the inside. Created with a separate ventilation system, independent power and water feed.
But it had an actual bed and clean sheets, a working bathroom with a shower, and a small kitchenette that was stocked with enough food and water for a year. Everything here was essential and had a purpose. It was a safe house, a tomb. A place to disappear when the city wanted you dead.
Until tonight.
I guided her inside and closed the heavy steel door behind us with a dull, final thud. This time, I slid the manual bolt home from the inside. Three thick inches of reinforced steel locking us in together. The sound echoed once then died against the concrete. No one would hear it.
Zoya stood frozen in the center of the small room, arms wrapped so tightly around herself that her knuckles turned white. Her eyes darted first to the bolted door, then to the bathroom and kitchenette, and finally to the dim, amber lamp that barely pushed back the shadows. She looked as if she expected the floor to open and swallow her whole.
I moved to the small propane heater in the corner. It was compact, ventless, and the kind designed for sealed spaces like this one. The independent gas line fed from a tank tucked behind the half wall, and the unit ran on a low, steady blue flame that produced no smoke and minimal exhaust.
I twisted the knob until the pilot caught then turned it up a notch. The ceramic elements glowed red almost immediately throwing clean, dry heat into the room. Warmth spread slowly.
“Sit,” I whispered, nodding toward the edge of the bed.
She obeyed, perching on the very corner of the mattress as if she might bolt if I so much as blinked. Zoya looked impossibly small swallowed by my coat and sitting on my dark sheets, trembling faintly even as the first threads of heat reached her.
I grabbed the thick, wool blanket from the wooden chair pushed up against a two-person table. I took my jacket off her and draped the blanket over her shoulders, tucking the edges around her arms so it stayed in place. Then, I took the spare pillow from the head of the bed, firm and unused, and slid it behind her back so she could lean without falling forward.