So instead, I aimlessly wander through the dark as my mind races. Mischa would snarl in anger if he saw me now. I can clearly envision what he’d say—Don’t sit quietly waiting for your throat to be cut! Find a way. Any way.
Guilt stabs through my chest whenever I try to imagine what he might be doing. I’m sure they’ve discovered my absence by now. Does he know how to find me? Does he even want to?
My knee strikes something hard enough to knock me off my feet, interrupting the chain of thought. Flailing, I scramble for something sturdy enough to break my fall. I find it in a firm material that feels flat. Immovable. Like wood.
The desk, I think. It’s large, overflowing with paperwork. Letters. Stacks of documents. In the absence of light, they have no purpose. Still, I feel through the various materials, searching for a lamp. My fingers brush something rigid instead, partially hidden beneath a sheet of paper. Whatever it is, it’s hard. Metal. Thin. A letter opener?
Hopeful, I swipe my finger along the edge. It’s not sharp, but pointed enough to serve as a weapon anyway. Tucking it against my palm, I retreat to my previous position.
A soft cough breaks the heavy silence, and I stiffen, heart in my throat. That’s right…
I’m not alone. The girl is on the opposite end of the room, huddled against the wall, only discernable by her stark white nightgown. Another cough and a muffled whimper consist of the few sounds she’s made since we came here.
My throat aches with the weight of my silence. I’ve never been so acutely aware of my own limitations until now. I wish I could say anything, if only to comfort her. Instead, I head in her direction, reaching out until my fingertips hit warm skin. Almost instantly, a small hand finds mine, gripping tightly, and I sink down beside her.
She seems so young. Too young.
Much like another little girl who, if she had a voice, might have cried in a moment like this. Robbed of sound, all she could do was wait in the dark at the hands of a stranger as a million different thoughts crossed her mind.
Fear of what might happen next.
Disbelief.
Hate for the man who ruined her innocence and plunged her into chaos.
In the end, that little girl was spared the worst fate imaginable, rescued by an unlikely source, Mischa Stepanov. For all I know, that same man could be on his way here now. God, I hope he is.
Straining my ears, I wait for any sound. Any sign of hope.
When none comes, my thoughts turn darker. I think I’ve stopped myself from reliving that moment until now—when Eli and Ellen returned to the manor in a bloodstained van, barely conscious. Despair is a noose around my neck at the thought that they could have died then. Still might…
And I wouldn’t even know, because I decided to run right to the very man who might have hurt them. Mischa thought as much. A good, loyal daughter would trust his judgment. Trust him.
Not the memory of a man who no longer exists. A figure who, even at his worst, could never commit that kind of crime.
Though the girl beside me is proof enough of how very wrong I could be.
I don’t know how long we sit like this before footsteps finally pierce the quiet, advancing toward this room. That fragile hope floods my chest, only to quickly die at the cadence of the figure’s walk—slow. Unsteady. Heavy—not Misha’s.
Paces from the room, the steps stall, and my heart stutters. Tension teases the air, enhancing every passing second until...
A sharp sound breaks the quiet, alarmingly close. The doorknob? I crane my neck, blinking until I swear I can see it. Turning. Slowly, slowly…
The door itself opens without warning, ushering in a sliver of blinding light.
I blink rapidly, fighting to take in whatever I can. A blurred shape. A person?
“You,” he says, dispelling the mystery. That gruff voice is unmistakable. “Come.”
He walks away, but I don’t budge from my seated position. The light from the hall is enough to illuminate this small corner. Beside me, the girl watches on, her eyes wide as her tiny fingers grip mine tighter.
Our visitor is already gone from what I can tell, his steps advancing away. For a second, I contemplate running, taking my chance now. Cautiously, I rise to my feet, pulling the girl with me, gripping the letter opener in my free hand. We creep forward, but with one look past the doorway, I realize the folly of running. The hallway beyond this room forks into two, but both exits are dominated by one man standing with his back to me.
My heart pangs at the sight of him. He hasn’t changed, even though it must be hours since he brought us here. He’s still wearing the same filthy suit, his appearance even more haggard. Disheveled. Going off the slow, heavy way he moves, I bet I could outrun him, even with the girl in tow.
Before I can go as much as a step, he inclines his head, the warning clear. Don’t even try it. As if confident I won’t, he continues down the left-hand hallway at that deliberate pace.
I grit my teeth, torn between logic and impulse. The further away he moves, the clearer my way becomes. From what I remember, the main entrance is through the right, and I flick my gaze in that direction.
“Don’t.” His voice is so soft, not even a shout, barely audible.
I go still regardless.
“Don’t run. You wouldn’t make it far,” he adds.
I swallow hard. The threat isn’t what makes me stop short. It’s his tone, as chilling as a smattering of off notes on a piano. There was no inflection. No passion—just malice. The way I figure a shark would taunt a bobbing, bleeding fish in its orbit.
He’s all but daring me to run, if only so he can give chase.
Because that’s what he really wants.
Despite knowing that, it takes everything I have not to bolt anyway. It’s painful, achievable only by digging my bare heels into the cool tile flooring as hard as I can. Then I loosen my grip on the girl and guide her back into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“Come,” Donatello warns, still paces away. Patiently, he waited until now merely to drive one point home.
We’re alone. My throat goes dry at the realization. Even with the distance between us, I notice the small details I hadn’t been aware of before. Like the fact that I’m wearing only a thin cotton dress. My hair feels slick, and the stench of lighter fluid itches my nostrils with every breath. As much as I want to deny the fear seeping through my veins, I can’t.
All I have against him is a dull secretary’s tool.
He has…time. It looms, as threatening as any weapon whenever I look at him. That face, the catalyst of so many memories. His hands. Even his steps trigger a painful recollection.
Luckily, pride is a bitter antidote to his poison, potent enough that I can hold my head high and take a step toward him, unaffected. Another. Another.
I can’t tell if he’s moving too slowly or I’m just gaining on him too quickly, leaving myself little time to take notice of our surroundings like I should.
Breathing deeply, I try to focus, eyeing the length of the corridor. There are no exits within easy distance of the room we’re being kept in. Still no windows, either. The only markers we pass are the fluorescent lightbulbs mounted in the ceiling above, casting swaths of darkness that swallow Donatello the further he goes.
Whether due to his intent or mine, the distance between us lengthens, putting me well beyond his reach. Again, the urge to run rises up. I could always fight. Overpower him. The letter opener is still in my grasp. My pulse surges as I glance down, spotting the delicate strip of silver peeking between my fingers. It could be a useful weapon.