-Hailey-
The first thing I registered was the chair.
755 vouch
The wood pressed against my spine, and the shape of it felt familiar. My wrists were bound to the armrests with thick, industrial zip–ties. The edges of the plastic were digging into my skin.
A fresh, metallic smell filled my nose, and I realized with a jolt of panic that duct tape was stretched tight across my mou sealing my scream inside my throat before it could even take shape.
I tried to move my legs, to kick out, but they were secured just as firmly to the front legs of the chair. It was no use.
The room was wrong. It wasn’t the dining room on Oakmoss Lane with its high ceilings and massive windows.
It was Logan’s living room. The couch was gone, and in its place was the long dining room table from that house. It even the same pliers and tooth sitting on it.
The light was all wrong. It was dim and sickly, like a fog had rolled in and died against the glass, leaching all the warmth from the world and leaving only a blue gloom.
And then I saw him.
Logan.
He was sitting directly across from me in another dining chair, straight and tall. He was wearing his cut, and the new Vice President patch glared white and pristine against the black leather.
For a heart–stopping second, pure relief flooded me.
He was here. He’d found me.
The feeling curdled into icy horror in the space of a single, choked breath.
His head was tilted back slightly, resting against the tall back of the chair. His mouth was open just enough to show a sliver teeth.
And his eyes… they froze the blood in
my
veins.
His beautiful, piercing green eyes were wide open, staring at å point on the ceiling above my head. They held no life, no recognition, no trace of the fury or the passion or the weary affection I knew so well.
They were just… there. Glassy and milky, like dirty ice.
And across his throat, from one side of his jaw to the other, was a deep, brutal gash.
It wasn’t a clean cut like the one on Sergei. It was a ragged, wet canyon of ruined flesh, dark and glistening in the blue light.
It looked like someone had tried to hack his entire head off, but quit halfway through,
A single, thin trickle of blood had escaped the wound’s main flow path. It carved a rusty trail down his arm before dripping
– with a sound I could somehow hear perfectly onto the hardwood floor.
www
*Plink…Plink…Plink.”
–
1/3
Chapter 117
1:|: ནོར བར ཀ 1:| 1|:ཀ ནི The sound of footsteps broke the sickening silence. Out from the shadowed hallway leading to Logan’s bedroom, a man stepped into the light.
He was exactly as Stella had described him. Impeccable. A dark gray suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrob tailored to perfection over broad shoulders. A crisp white shirt, open at the collar.
His hair was indeed salt–and–pepper, cut short and severe. His face was clean–shaven, and his skin was smooth like porcel He could have been a CEO or a senator.
But his eyes. They were the palest blue I had ever seen. The color of a winter sky just before a blizzard. There was no warmth in them, no humor, no anger. Just a flat, analytical coldness that made my intestines twist into knots.
In one hand, he held a long, slender knife. Its blade reflected the weak light. In the other, he held a white handkerchief.
He didn’t look at me at first. His focus was on his work. He carefully, almost lovingly, wiped the blade of the knife with th handkerchief, methodically cleaning it.
The fabric came away stained a deep, ugly red.
Then his eyes lifted and met mine. A small, nearly imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“A waste of good material,” he said. His voice was low and smooth, layered with that cultured Russian accent.
It was exactly as I remembered. Exactly as Stella had said. Calm, amused… like he was discussing the weather. He gestured with the clean knife toward Logan’s body. “Such a fine, blunt instrument. But ultimately… predictable.”
He took a step closer to me and his polished shoes clicked against the floorboards. He leaned over, and his cold eyes scann my face.
I could smell his cologne. Something dry and expensive.
“You should have listened to me, *Ace*,” he purred, throwing Logan’s pet name for me back in my face like a spitball. “I tol you what would happen if you told him we spoke. This is on you. Your disobedience. Your sentiment.”
The urge to scream was a physical pressure behind my eyes, behind the tape. I strained against the zip–ties until I felt the skin on my wrists split. A hot, wet sensation followed that I felt more than saw.
He straightened up, and his gaze drifting away from me like I’d already bored him. He gestured with the handkerchief toward the other sides of the table. “I did, however, keep my promise. I took something else.”
A cold dread, colder than anything I’d ever felt, seized my heart in a vise. Slowly, fighting it every inch of the way, I turned my head to the right.
My mother sat there. Tied to one of our mismatched kitchen chairs. She was wearing her favorite floral–print robe, and her kind eyes were wide with terror.
She had duct tape across her mouth.
A ragged, muffled sob tore from my chest, strangled by my taped lips as he rounded the table toward her.
Her eyes held mine as he put the knife to her throat. She didn’t struggle or even try to scream as he sliced her neck open
from ear to ear.
A sickening gurgle came from the wound as blood began to pour out.
I wrenched my head to the left. I couldn’t watch anymore.
2/3
2:02 pm P
Chapter 117
But to my left was something equally horrifying
Abby.
My sister. My fierce, brilliant, pain–in–the–ass little sister. She was in her nursing school scrubs, with her honey–blonde hair pulled back in its usual practical ponytail.
Her intense hazel eyes, always so full of wit and worry, were crying and scared above her own duct taped mouth
She choked out a muffled sob, tugging desperately at her restraints as Anatoly strolled slowly around the table.
I scrunched my eyes closed as he brought the knife to her throat, but I couldn’t do anything to stop the sickening sound from invading my ears.
When I opened my eyes again, they were just… there.
My family. My world. Arranged around a table in the living room I shared with the man I loved, all of them dead Lifeless Still bleeding out on the onto the hardwood floor.
Because I couldn’t keep a secret. Because I was weak.
Anatoly watched me take it in. My body trembled violently against my restraints, and the sounds of my anguish died against the duct tape.
He gave a slight, satisfied nod.
“The message is delivered,” he said softly. He folded the blood–stained handkerchief neatly and tucked it into his breast pocket. He laid the clean knife on the table in front of me, next to the pliers. “I do hope we understand each other now, Ms. Conway.”
Then he turned and walked back into the shadows of the hallway, shoes clicking across the floor, leaving me alone with my dead.
AD
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
