Page 11 of Cruel Submission

Chapter Four

Arkady

Somewhere between my father’s ruined gates and the highway, Debra’s breathing evens out.

I glance over. Her head’s tipped against the window, eyes closed, mouth slack. Finally unconscious—probably the first time in six years she’s felt safe enough to let go. Or maybe her nervous system has just crashed out.

I turn back to the road, but my mind’s already racing ahead to the next crisis. Mirabel.

Where the fuck is she?

The question’s been chewing at me since I realized she wasn’t among the girls we pulled from the cellar. Maybe Gavriil has nothing to do with her disappearance. But if he doesn’t, then where is she? Why hasn’t she called? Texted? She’d never skip work without notice—not when every hour pays for her father’s chemo. She’d show up bleeding before she’d miss a shift.

Which means something’s very wrong.

I’m going back out the second I get Debra settled. I’ll burn this entire city down to find her.

Stefan navigates the curves with precision, no wasted motion. We carve through the dark toward Ashwater Heights, and the silence in the van feels dense, oppressive. Just the engine’s hum and Debra’s soft breathing behind me.

When we pull through my gates, the lights are on.

My hands tighten on the door handle. I left minimal staff on tonight—security only. So who the hell is inside?

Stefan stops near the side entrance. I’m out before he cuts the engine. “Get her inside through the east wing,” I tell him. “Keep her out of sight until I check the house.”

He nods once. No questions.

I take the front steps and push through into the foyer. Lemon polish. Fresh flowers. The house has been cleaned. Recently. My boots track across marble that’s gleaming from mopping.

Then I hear it—water running in the kitchen. The soft clink of dishes.

I move down the hallway and stop in the kitchen doorway.

Mirabel.

She’s at the sink, back to me, sleeves pushed to her elbows, washing a pot. Her hair’s twisted up in that messy knot she makes when she’s focused on something else, and she’s humming—soft, off-key.

In my house.

Alive.

The relief hits me so hard I have to lock my knees to stay upright. My chest opens up, lets me breathe for the first time in hours. She’s here. She’s whole. She’s—

Then the rest of reality slams back in.

Debra. Upstairs. Mirabel can’t see her. Not yet. Not like this—barely stable, brutalized, held together by adrenaline and terror. And Mirabel will demand answers I can’t give her. She’ll want to touch her sister, talk to her, fix her, and I can’t let that happen. Not when Debra’s one wrong word away from breaking completely.

I need her upstairs and hidden. Now.

I step back into the hallway and catch Stefan’s eye through the window. He’s got Debra upright, supporting most of her weight. I motion sharply toward the east corridor, the service route that bypasses all the main rooms. He adjusts course without hesitation.

I watch until they disappear around the corner. Then I count to ten, aligning my expression into something cold and controlled, and walk into the kitchen.

Mirabel hasn’t heard me. She’s bent over the sink, scrubbing hard at something, and I can see the tension strung through her shoulders, the way her hands shake slightly even as she works. She’s not as calm as she’s pretending.

“So. You’re back.”

She spins around. The pot hits the sink with a clatter. Her eyes go wide when she sees me—shock, then something softer, then something else that flickers across her face too fast for me to identify. Like she’s afraid I’ll ask questions she can’t answer.