"Okay," I whisper, stepping back, wrapping my arms around my waist in a protective, comforting gesture. "I'm sorry. I won't ask again."
Maria lets out a shaky exhale of relief. "Thank you, Donna. I will return for the tray in one hour."
She turns and walks quickly back to the double doors. She knocks twice on the wood. A second later, the deadbolt slides back, the door opens just enough for her to slip out, and it slams shut again. The lock clicks.
I am alone again.
I look at the food on the silver cart. Scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, fresh fruit, and steaming tea. The smell of it makes my empty stomach clench violently, but the anxiety coursing through my veins makes the thought of swallowing anything completely repulsive.
I walk over to the table and pick up the porcelain teacup. The warmth seeps into my freezing fingers. I take a small sip. It is chamomile, sweetened with honey. Exactly what my childhood therapist used to recommend for my panic attacks.
He knows everything.
I carry the teacup to the window and look out at the mist again. Time begins to warp. The heavy silence of the room presses against my eardrums until they ring. Every shadow feels like athreat. Every creak of the massive house settling makes my pulse jump.
Thirty minutes pass.
Then, I hear it.
It is incredibly faint. Not the heavy, metallic thud of the deadbolt on the main doors. It is a soft, metallicclickcoming from the opposite side of the suite.
I slowly turn my head.
To the left of the walk-in closets is a secondary door. I had assumed it led to another closet or perhaps a private study.
The brass knob is turning. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.
My heart stops completely. The teacup in my hands trembles, the hot liquid sloshing over the brim to burn my knuckles, but I don't feel the pain. The survival instinct, honed over eighteen years of living with a violent man, immediately hijacks my nervous system.
The door opens with a soft whisper of hinges.
A man steps into the master suite.
He is dressed in the standard tactical gear of the Syndicate soldiers—black combat pants, a heavy vest, a dark long-sleeved shirt. But the moment my eyes lock onto his face, my blood runs colder than ice.
He isn't looking at the floor.
He is looking directly at me. His eyes are dead, professional, and entirely devoid of the fear that every other guard in this compound possesses when my name is even whispered.
He reaches behind him and pushes the door shut. He slides a heavy, internal bolt across the frame, effectively locking us in from the inside.
"Who are you?" I breathe, the teacup slipping from my numb fingers. It hits the thick carpet with a dull thud, the chamomile tea soaking into the dark fibers.
The man doesn't answer. He reaches down to his tactical boot. With a smooth, practiced motion, he draws a long, serrated combat knife. The dark metal absorbs the muted light of the room, promising absolute, silent violence.
"The Commission sends their regards, Sybil Vance," the man says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, designed not to travel through the soundproof walls.
The Commission.The rival family. The people my father sold me to.
A strangled scream tears its way up my throat, but it never makes it past my lips. My vocal cords are completely paralyzed by sheer, primal terror.
The man lunges.
He is incredibly fast, crossing the massive distance of the bedroom in seconds. I stumble backward, my heel catching on the thick pile of the rug. I fall hard, the impact jarring my spine, my hands flying up in a pathetic, desperate attempt to shield my face from the blade.
But the blade never connects.
The heavy, double-vaulted mahogany doors of the main entrance do not just open. They explode.
