I slip into a pair of black jeans and a dark shirt whose fabric hugs my body like armor. This simple act feels like a stark transformation from the last time I prepared to enter this house. Back then, I was polished like a prop, using pearls and polite smiles as armor. Just a fragile pawn in a game I didn’t understand. Now, I’m a soldier steeling myself for a mission.
Chapter 34
Darla
Hehandsmeacomms unit, his fingers brushing against mine, the touch now imbued with respect and professionalism. “Stay on this channel,” he instructs, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “Talk to me the whole time. You’re my eyes in there.” It’s not an order; it’s a request, a testament to the trust he’s placing in me.
We park a few blocks away, the rest of the team—Nash and Rider—slipping into the shadows like phantoms, blending seamlessly with the night. As we approach the house on foot, the manicured darkness of the wealthy neighborhood wraps around us, every familiar tree and garden statue a ghost from mypast. My heart pounds against my ribs, the rhythm echoing the anxiety that coils in my stomach.
We arrive at the back of the house, the ivy-covered trellis looming before us like a dark ladder into my history. East moves first, climbing with a silent, lethal grace that steals my breath away. He secures the entry with practiced ease, then reaches down for me, his grip strong and reassuring as he pulls me up and over the windowsill.
We’re in. The air in my old bedroom is stale, thick with the scent of dried roses and memories of a girl who no longer exists. It feels like a perfectly preserved museum—pristine yet unsettling. East hovers close behind me, his presence warm and protective. His hand brushes my arm occasionally, a silent question lingering in the air. You okay? I nod, but my throat feels constricted, the weight of the moment heavy.
Memories of the house press in from all sides—the plush runner outside my door, the foyer’s hidden pressure plate, the cold draft that always leaked through the front door—rising like a tide of nostalgia tinged with dread.
A sudden sound breaks through the stillness from downstairs—a soft cough, then the unmistakable, tiny sound of a television cutting through the stillness. My blood runs cold. The housekeeper. She was supposed to be gone for the night.
East’s hand finds mine in the dark, his grip tightening like a vice, a silent command that urges me to remain absolutely still. The tension hangs thick between us, an electric pulse reminding us we’re not alone in this house filled with ghosts. Each minute sound seems amplified—the creak of the floorboards beneath our feet, the distant hum of the city outside, and the faint rustle of the ivy brushing against the window.
We move like shadows now, each breath held tightly, every sound downstairs sharpening the danger in the room. The air is heavy with memories. My old bedroom looms around me like aportal to a past I thought I’d escaped. My hands tremble as I move deeper inside, my heart racing in sync with the pounding in my ears. I reach the small vanity where the music box sits, untouched and waiting. It’s exactly as I left it, a porcelain ballerina poised mid-twirl, forever frozen in a moment of grace. The gift from Declan for our sixteenth birthday, now a haunting reminder of everything I lost.
My fingers shake as I lift the lid, and the soft tinkling melody spills out, a sweet yet painful echo of a life that was stolen from me. I find the small latch for the false bottom hidden within the velvet lining. It clicks open with a satisfying sound. And there it is—a small, cold, brass key, glinting in the dim light like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness.
A moment of quiet, personal triumph washes over me. I have it. I turn, the key clutched tightly in my palm, and my eyes meet East’s in the shadows. A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face, a flicker of warmth in this cold, tense moment. Then, we hear it.
A car door slams outside—sharp, close—then the heavy front door creaks open downstairs. My heart drops as a voice cuts through the silence, freezing the blood in my veins. “Isabella? I’m home early.”
My father.
The smile vanishes from East’s face, replaced by a cold, lethal stillness. We’re trapped here in my old bedroom, clutching the key that could destroy him, while the monster himself is just down the hall, his heavy, familiar footsteps echoing up the main staircase. Closer. And closer.
The world narrows to the sound of my father’s footsteps on the main staircase. Heavy. Familiar. Each step feels like a hammer blow against my ribs, echoing through the hollow space of my chest. Ice floods my veins, rooting me in place at the center of my old bedroom, where the air is heavy with memories and secrets.The room is a tomb, suffocating and silent, and the ghost of my father is finally coming home.
Then East moves.
He doesn’t panic. He goes utterly still for a single, terrifying heartbeat, then he transforms into pure, silent motion. In one fluid motion, he pulls me back, away from the door, his body a solid shield in front of mine. The movement is so seamless that I barely register it until my back hits the wall, and he becomes a wall of muscle and leather looming protectively over me. I catch a glint of steel as he retrieves a handgun from the small of his back, the motion so precise it sends a chill down my spine. He raises a finger to his lips, signaling for silence as if the very act could keep us hidden.
His other hand goes to his ear, thumb pressing the comms unit with urgency. I watch his lips move, forming a single, almost inaudible word that hangs heavy in the air. “Compromised.”
My father’s voice echoes from the hallway, closer now, laced with irritation and authority. “Isabella? Did you leave the garden sprinklers on again?” His footsteps turn, heading down the hall, each step a reminder of the danger creeping toward us. My breath catches in my throat, a raw, panicked sound I desperately swallow down. East’s body tenses in front of me, a coiled spring ready to lash out at any moment.
Just as his footsteps are about to reach my bedroom door, a cacophony erupts from outside. A car alarm, high-pitched and piercing, shrieks through the night, slicing through the tension like a knife. It’s immediately followed by the sickening crunch of metal on metal. The brutal sound reverberates through the house, shaking the very foundations of my carefully curated life.
From the hallway, I hear my father let out a furious string of curses, his measured footsteps pivoting abruptly, moving quickly and heavily away from us and back down the stairs.His priority shifts from a misplaced housekeeper to the chaos unfolding on his pristine driveway. The trap has opened.
The second his footsteps fade, East’s hand is on my arm, firm and commanding. “Go. Now.” The urgency in his voice shatters my paralysis. This is not a calm exit; it’s a frantic, silent scramble. He’s at the window, pushing it open wider, the hinges creaking ominously in the stillness. Then he’s out on the trellis, his movements sure and silent in the dark, like a shadow slipping through the night. He reaches back for me, his hand a solid anchor in the storm of my fear.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and I believe him.
I climb out into the night, the cool air a shock against my flushed skin, biting and alive. The trellis groans under our combined weight, a warning that we’re pushing our luck, and my knee catches. Denim scrapes and something gives with a vicious rip. My hands tremble, but adrenaline surges through my veins, igniting a fire that drowns out the pain. We’re halfway down when I hear my father’s roar from an open window below—he’s seen us.
We don’t wait. We drop the last ten feet, landing hard in the soft, perfectly mulched flowerbeds. The impact sends a jolt of pain up my bruised ribs, but I don’t slow. East’s hand finds mine, his grip unyielding as he pulls me into a sprint, weaving through the manicured gardens that have always felt more like a museum than a yard—beautiful but suffocating.
We meet Nash and Rider at the rendezvous point a block away, their bikes idling like two waiting beasts in the shadows, engines humming with barely contained power.
“His Mercedes is a mess,” Nash says, his voice dripping with the thrill of chaos and satisfaction. “He’ll be busy making calls for a while. Let’s move.”
East makes the call over the comms as we run for the bikes, urgency threading through every word. “We’re not going backto my place. Not the clubhouse. We’re going to my parents’.” The plan hangs in the air between us, heavy with promise and danger, as the adrenaline of our escape pulses through my veins, igniting a defiant spark within me.
