I inhaled slowly — forcing air into lungs that felt compressed by fear.
Chapter 8
ELENA
Istood beside Ruslan in the dimly lit underground bunker beneath the estate.
The air felt heavy.
Thick with the smell of gun oil, damp concrete, cleaning chemicals, and the faint metallic trace of old blood.
Overhead lights hummed softly, casting cold white illumination across steel tables and weapon racks.
Twenty-five men lined the walls.
They weren’t random guards.
They were ex-military.
You could tell by the way they carried themselves.
Broad shoulders.
Close-cropped hair.
Eyes that scanned everything without appearing to look at anything in particular.
Each man had a rifle slung across his chest or resting muzzle-down against his thigh.
Their fingers hovered near triggers.
Not tense.
Not relaxed.
Prepared.
Professionals who had seen real combat and understood how fast situations could turn lethal.
No one talked.
No one shifted unnecessarily.
No one laughed.
They existed in silence — coiled power waiting for a command.
I tracked their movements instinctively.
Ruslan followed my gaze.
“I recruited the best,” he said quietly.
His tone wasn’t boastful.
It was factual.
“Men who’ve served in places governments pretend don’t exist. Black operations. Proxy wars. Border conflicts no one reports on.”
