Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
He crashes backwards, the back of his skull cracking against the corner of a solid tabletop behind him with a sound like a melon splitting.
I like that sound.
He doesn’t get back up.
I rock the chair backward, feeling the weight distribution shift. The expensive piece of furniture is top-heavy, all that mahogany craftsmanship working against its structural integrity.
Another hard rock, and it topples over sideways with a satisfying crash. The impact jars my shoulder, but more importantly, it brings me within reach of the knife.
I strain against my restraints, fingers stretching toward the gleaming blade. So close. Almost there. The zip ties bite deeper into my wrists, but I don’t care. Pain is temporary. Death is permanent.
My fingertips brush the handle. I walk my fingers along the smooth surface until I can grip it properly, then carefully maneuver it until the sharp edge presses against the plastic restraints.
The blade is wickedly sharp—it cuts the zip ties like they’re made of paper. In seconds, I’m free.
I stand slowly, testing my balance, knife held loosely in my right hand. Mikalai is still unconscious, a small pool of blood leaking from the back of his head onto the pristine floor. His breathing is shallow and irregular.
He’s dying. Probably has been since his skull kissed the corner of that table. Brain bleed, most likely. He’ll be gone in minutes.
I could finish him now. Quick and clean. But watching him fade is more satisfying somehow. More poetic.
I step over his prone form and walk to where his phone has fallen from his pocket. It buzzes with an incoming text from Pavel:
PAVEL: How is our guest enjoying the hospitality?
I type back:
MIKALAI: She’s singing beautifully. Will need at least another hour.
His response is immediate:
PAVEL: Take your time. Enjoy yourself.
Perfect. That gives me a window to work with.
I flip the knife in my hand, feeling its weight, its balance. The motion is automatic, meditative. Like a pianist running scales.
Time to go have a conversation with Pavel about the nature of contracts and the importance of keeping one’s word.
The hallway outside is empty, just expensive carpet and soft lighting. I move silently, my bare feet making no sound on the plush fibers. The knife feels warm in my palm, eager to be useful again.
Somewhere in this building, Pavel is conducting his business, thinking he’s won. Thinking he’s outsmarted the dangerous little bee who’s been buzzing around his operation.
He’s about to learn why my name is Red.
And why smart predators never, ever corner an animal with nothing left to lose.
THIRTY-EIGHT
DOMHNALL
The warehouse stinks of rust, stale water, and something else—something metallic that makes my stomach clench. Blood. Not much, but enough to set every nerve on fire as I sweep my flashlight across the concrete floor, searching for any trace of her.
“Sir, over here,” one of Isaak’s men calls from the far corner. Carlos, I think his name is. He’s ex-military, with the kind of steady professionalism that doesn’t flinch at blood or chaos. “Fresh zip ties.”
I stride over, crouching beside the scattered plastic fragments. My chest tightens as I imagine Mads bound here, helpless, while some bastard held her captive. The rage that’s been building since Moira told me what happened threatens to explode, but I force it down. Focus. Find her first. Kill everything else after.
“This has to have been where Moira and Anna were being kept,” Isaak notes, his own flashlight illuminating more cut ties a few feet away.
“Timeline?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know. Every hour that passes makes this worse.
“Hard to say. Could be yesterday, could be this morning.” Marcus straightens, scanning the room with the methodical precision of someone who’s done this before. “Whoever was here cleared out fast, but they weren’t sloppy about it.”
Professional. Which means this isn’t some random kidnapping gone wrong. This is organized, planned, and deliberate. And that makes it a thousand times more dangerous.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the sound sharp and jarring in the empty space. Unknown number. My heart lurches. I swipe to accept.
The screen flickers to life, and my world tilts sideways.
A video call. It’s her face—unmistakably hers—but something’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
Blood. There’s blood everywhere. It’s streaked across her cheek like war paint, dried under her fingernails, and splattered across her clothes. Her hair is matted with it, dark strands sticking to her forehead.
But it’s her eyes that stop my heart. They’re empty. Not vacant—empty. Like looking into a house where all the lights have been turned off and no one’s home.
“Mads!” The name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. “Anna!”
She tilts her head at me, and a smile spreads across her blood-stained face. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen—too wide, too knowing, like she’s in on a joke I’ll never understand.
“Hello, Domhnall,” she says, and even her voice is wrong. The cadence is off, the tone too measured, too clinical. Like she’s reading from a script written in a language she doesn’t quite speak.