Page 15 of Brutal Reign

I begin the half-hour trek home, one foot in front of the other, through the rougher parts of the city. I’ve learned to keep my hood up and my eyes down.

My fingers curl around my keys in my coat pocket. Not the best weapon. I’ve been meaning to buy mace or bear spray, but that will have to wait until I get next week’s wages.

The night is noisy, with traffic rumbling, laughter spilling from a club, and someone shouting a name across the street. The city pulses with life, but something makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise as if I’m being watched.

I’m sure it’s just paranoia. Ever since escaping the villa, I jump at shadows and read threats into every glance from a stranger. The hypervigilance is exhausting, but it’s not the worst part. The worst part is the guilt. And missing a father I never really knew.

Truth is, I wish we’d had more time together. Those three weeks in hiding were the most one-on-one time I’d had with him as an adult. Before that, even during brief visits home, Simon was always there, always in the way.

As an orphan, he’d been raised in the triad. My father saw potential in him early and took him under his wing. The day after I was sent abroad, Simon moved into our house, and my father raised him like his own son.

It wasn’t Simon’s fault, but I was always jealous. It felt like he’d taken my place in my father’s life, stolen the time that should have been mine.

What haunts me isn’t grief, it’s the lost potential. That opportunity will never come again. Baba, Simon, and all their men perished in the attack while I escaped.

Though “escaped” isn’t quite right. I was spared.

I’m only alive because of one man—a Syndicate soldier who, for reasons I’ll never understand, let me live even after I stabbed him.

I was trying to reach the back tunnels when I spotted three men heading for Baba’s office. I could have stayed hidden in the shadows as they passed, but something stupid and reckless made me try to buy my father more time.

Earlier, I’d grabbed a dagger from my room in case I needed to defend myself. Here, I saw an opportunity to help him, no matter how foolish.

In a burst of desperate courage, I lunged forward and drove the blade between the last man’s ribs. He should have shot me on the spot, or let his partners do it. I was certain I’d taken my last breath.

Instead, he let me go.

I can’t picture that soldier’s face because his mask hid too much. What I do remember is the unexpected mercy from an enemy.

But there’s no point in dwelling on the past. With one last glance over my shoulder, I pull my jacket tighter around me and hurry down the street.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

PAVEL

Hope’s buildingsits between a kebab shop and a pawnbroker, its pre-war brick stained black by decades of exhaust and neglect. I slip through the entrance behind a takeaway delivery driver, then climb the back stairs to avoid the security camera in the main lobby.

Tonight, I finish what I should have done in Switzerland.

Breaking in here is something I should have done from the start, but her building’s been crawling with construction workers doing pipe repairs, making it impossible to move undetected. Tonight’s the first time the place has been quiet, and the late shift she’s working means she won’t be home until past midnight.

My first challenge is getting in. She was smart enough to upgrade the locks on her unit, as well as install a Ring camera on her front door.

Having scoped out her place beforehand, I’ve come prepared with a small device designed to kill Wi-Fi signals. I point the device at the camera and hold down the button. To Hope, it’llseem like her internet cut out for a few minutes. It gives me a short window to break in.

The Yale lock is a cinch to pick, but the deadbolt puts up more of a fight. I work each pin individually, hoping no neighbors decide to make an appearance. I’d really rather not kill anyone else tonight. When I hear the satisfying click of the final pin sliding into place, I let myself in.

I pause in the doorway, listening. There’s nothing but the distant hum of traffic and someone’s television bleeding through thin walls.

Two weeks of following her around has shown me her patterns. I know she shops on Saturday mornings, does her laundry on Sunday, occasionally stops by the bookstore on her way to work, and treats herself to a movie at the cinema once in a while.

At first, it was reconnaissance. I was making sure she wasn’t taking secret meetings in person. But so far, that’s not the case. All I’ve seen is a woman who works, sleeps, and repeats the cycle.

But somewhere along the way, watching her became an obsession. When I follow her home at night, I don’t watch her, I watchoverher. The instinct that made me spare her in Switzerland has only grown stronger, mixed with something I haven’t wanted to admit to myself—desire.

And every day that passes, the feeling sharpens. I want to protect her from every threat, but I also want to pin her beneath me and hear her cry out my name… my real one.