Page 104 of Rescuing Aria

The nameless girl moves suddenly, darting forward to grab the knife. My father whirls, sensing movement behind him. The distraction is enough—I wrench free of his grip and scramble away.

“Run!” the girl shouts, brandishing the knife.

My father’s laugh is dismissive. “Put that down, you stupid little whore, before I show you what real pain feels like.”

She doesn’t waver, doesn’t flinch at his words. Something in her has snapped—the fear replaced by desperate resolve. She’s trapped in this house with two monsters, one unconscious, one raging. She has nothing left to lose.

“Go,” she tells me again, her eyes never leaving my father.

My father lunges for the girl, clearly expecting her to crumble in fear. Instead, she slashes outward. The blade catches his forearm, slicing through expensive wool and skin beneath. He roars in pain and rage.

I can’t leave her—won’t leave her to his rage. Not after everything I’ve witnessed. Not after understanding what men like my father do to people they consider disposable.

I grab a silver serving tray from the sideboard and swing it with all my strength. It connects with the back of my father’s head. He staggers, turning toward me with shock and fury contorting his features.

“You dare—” he begins, but the girl uses his distraction. She slashes forward with the knife, catching him across the shoulder.

He roars in pain, spinning back toward her. Blood blooms across his expensive shirt, spreading like ink on silk.

“Come on.” I grab the girl’s arm, pulling her toward the service door. My father stumbles after us, rage overriding the pain of his injuries.

We burst through the door into the service corridor. The service corridor is dimly lit and narrow, clearly meant for staff to move unseen through the house. I have no idea where it leads, but away from my father is the only direction that matters.

“We need to find Jon,” I tell her, still gripping her arm. “Do you know where they’re keeping him?”

“Basement cells,” she finally says. “Through the kitchen, past the laundry.” Terror and uncertainty war in her eyes. Helping me is already more rebellion than she’s dared in years.

Behind us, the service door crashes open. My father stands there, blood streaming from his shoulder, fury transforming his familiar features into something monstrous.

“Run!” I pull the girl forward, down the dimly lit corridor. We race around a corner, my father’s footsteps pounding behind us.

“This way,” the girl gasps, tugging me toward a narrow staircase. We descend rapidly, the steps creaking beneath our weight.

My father’s voice echoes from above, shouting threats and promises of what he’ll do when he catches us. The sound drives us faster, deeper into the house.

We reach the bottom of the stairs, emerging into another corridor. The lighting is harsher here, fluorescent tubes casting everything in cold, unforgiving light. Utilitarian. Functional. The hidden machinery of Wolfe’s operation.

“The cells are through there,” the girl points ahead, where the corridor branches. “But there will be guards.”

I move quickly, following the corridor as it turns left, then right. Ahead, light spills from an open doorway. Voices carry—male, gruff. Guards. I slow my pace, easing toward the light.

“—check the east wing again,” someone says. “Wolfe wants the boyfriend found before midnight.”

The boyfriend. Jon. He’s alive, and they’re looking for him. Which means he’s escaped his cell.

A surge of hope rises in me. If Jon is free, moving through the house, there’s a chance. A real chance we might get out of here.

“We need a distraction.” My gaze falls on a fire alarm mounted on the wall. Without hesitation, I pull it.

Sirens wail immediately, the sound deafening in the confined space. Emergency lights begin flashing, bathing everything in pulses of red.

“This way,” I shout over the alarm, pulling her toward where she indicated the cells would be.

A narrow staircase leads down toward storage areas. Away from the voices, at least.

I descend silently, one hand trailing along the wall for guidance. At the bottom, another corridor stretches into darkness. A service area, most likely—the unseen veins of the house where staff move like ghosts, attending to the needs of those above.

Perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.