Page 52 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

T he servants' entrance is exactly where I left it over a month ago.

My fingers find the security panel without conscious thought, instinct taking over as I input the override sequence.

The same one Jerzy taught me when I was seven, convinced no one would ever think to change it.

He was right. Arrogance has always been his fatal flaw.

The lock disengages with a soft click. Three seconds is all it takes me to get inside the house that's haunted my nightmares. Not the fifteen minutes I told Angelo.

I slip inside, the familiar scent of lemon polish and old wood hitting me like a physical blow.

Beeswax and brass cleaner, the smell of wealth maintained by invisible hands.

My stomach clenches, but I push the sensation down.

I lied to him for a reason. This confrontation needs to happen without him in the crossfire.

Without him seeing what I become within these walls.

What I've always been within these walls.

The corridor stretches ahead, servants' quarters dark and silent with everyone gone at this hour.

The night shift runs a skeleton crew, another of Jerzy's predictable patterns.

My feet remember every creaky floorboard, every loose tile.

The third step from the kitchen creaks like a gunshot.

The tile near the pantry shifts if you put weight on the left corner.

I move like smoke, like the ghost I've always been in this house, avoiding every trap the old building sets.

Movement ahead. A guard rounds the corner, flashlight sweeping lazily from left to right in a pattern any first-year security student could time.

Amateur. I'm on him before his brain registers the threat, my hand clamping over his mouth as my knife slides between his ribs, angled up toward his heart with surgical precision.

The blade parts skin and muscle like warm butter, finding the gap between bone with practised ease.

He drops without a sound, eyes wide with shock that fades to nothing.

I drag him into an alcove, arranging his body behind a dusty curtain. My hands work automatically, checking for blood spatter, smoothing away drag marks. A lifetime of training condensed into efficient movements.

"Clean up your mess, Kasia. No evidence. No witnesses."

Jerzy's voice slithers through my mind like poisoned honey, and I taste bile. But my hands don't shake. They never shake when I'm working. When I'm what he made me.

I'm not doing this for you anymore, I tell the voice. I'm doing this to end you.

The guard's radio crackles softly, routine check-in in another eight minutes. I pocket it, monitoring their chatter as I move deeper into the compound. Three more patrols, exactly where they have always been. Jerzy always was a creature of habit, believing his own myths about invincibility.

I ghost through the kitchen, empty at this hour except for the lingering scent of tonight's dinner service.

The marble countertops gleam in the moonlight filtering through barred windows, wrought iron painted to look decorative but strong enough to stop a car.

How many times did I sneak through here as a child, stealing food after Jerzy withheld meals as punishment?

My stomach would cramp with hunger while he explained that weakness deserved to suffer.

The main corridor leads toward the security office, Persian runners muffling my footsteps. Each step measured, each sense alert. This is what I am. What he made me. A weapon wrapped in flesh, designed for silence and death.

Another flash of memory hits as I pass a familiar doorway—

Ten years old, blood streaming from my split lip, Jerzy's hand wrapped in my hair as he drags me down this exact hallway. "Pathetic," he snarls. "You think your enemies will show mercy because you're small? Again. We go again until you get it right."

I force the memory down, lock it away with all the others clamouring for attention. Not now. The mission comes first. Always the mission first. Focus on the present, on the goal.

The security office door appears ahead, light spilling from beneath like liquid gold.

Two guards inside, according to the rotation schedule Arrow provided.

I pull the canister from my belt, grateful for the ventilation system Jerzy never bothered to upgrade.

Too proud to admit his fortress might have flaws.

The gas will take fifteen seconds to fully deploy. Twenty for them to go under.

I crack the door, toss the canister, and count.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Shouts of alarm, quickly muffled as confusion sets in.

Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi.

Choking sounds. A chair scraping against the floor. A body hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Fifteen Mississippi. Sixteen Mississippi.

I wait until twenty-five before entering, mask on and knife drawn out of habit. Both guards are unconscious, one sprawled over his desk like he fell asleep reading reports, the other crumpled by the door in an undignified heap. I check their pulses—alive but deeply under.

The security monitors flicker before me, showing feeds from around the compound. I spot Angelo's SUV in the shadows beyond the gate, a dark shape barely visible against the treeline. My chest tightens with something I refuse to name. Ten more minutes before he moves according to our plan.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, executing shutdown sequences I could perform in my sleep. The interface hasn't changed since I was fifteen. Jerzy's obsession with control extends to hating upgrades that might introduce vulnerabilities he doesn't understand.

"Szybciej, Kasia. Every second counts."

The memory of Jerzy's voice makes my jaw clench. Faster. Always faster. Never fast enough to please him. The irony isn't lost on me. I'm using his own training against him now.

But I'm not that frightened little girl anymore. My hands move with precision born of years of practice, disabling cameras, motion sensors, and silent alarms. The compound's electronic eyes go dark one by one, creating blind spots that will let Angelo move unseen.

Movement on the monitor catches my eye, a guard approaching from the west corridor. More alert than the others, weapon drawn and held in proper ready position. He must have noticed the camera failures, or someone missed a check-in. Smart. Too bad it won't save him.

I slip out of the office, pulling my mask off and melting into the shadows as his footsteps approach.

Heavy boots, confident stride, ex-military by the sound of it.

He's cautious but not cautious enough, following protocol instead of instinct.

When he passes my position, I strike. The blade parts skin and muscle with surgical precision, severing his carotid before he can scream.

Arterial spray paints the wall in abstract patterns, dark against the cream wallpaper. I catch his body as it falls, easing it down silently despite the dead weight. His blood is warm on my hands, as familiar as breathing. How many times have I felt life slip away beneath my fingers?

Five minutes gone. Angelo will be moving soon, I'd better hurry up if I want to spare him seeing me like this.

I drag this body into a supply closet, noting the time on my watch. Someone will find him within the hour when he misses his check-in. By then, it won't matter. Either we'll be gone, or we'll be beyond caring about discovery.

The east wing beckons as I clean my blade on the dead guard's uniform.

My old room is down that hallway. The place where I spent countless nights nursing wounds and dreaming of a different life I thought I'd never have.

The temptation to look, to see if anything remains of the girl I was, pulls at me like gravity.

But I force myself to stay on mission. Sentiment is weakness. Jerzy taught me that, even if he never meant for me to apply the lesson to him.

Still, my feet slow as I pass the corridor. Just a glance wouldn't hurt the timeline. Just to see if—

No. Focus.

I'm halfway to the west wing when I notice the training room door standing open. My body freezes without my permission. That room. God, that fucking room.

I shouldn't look. I should keep moving.

But my feet carry me forward anyway, drawn by the gravitational pull of old trauma. The door swings open under my touch, silent on well-oiled hinges.

Everything is exactly the same.

The dark mats still cover the floor, faded but clean and carefully maintained.

The weapons rack stands against the far wall—knives, guns, garrotes, all lovingly maintained and gleaming under fluorescent lights.

And there, painted across the entire north wall in loving detail, the massive wolf head that haunted my nightmares.

Its eyes seem to follow me as I step inside, tracking my movement like a predator evaluating prey.

Black paint on white concrete, every detail rendered with obsessive precision.

The bared teeth sharp enough to tear flesh.

The raised hackles promising violence. The predator's focus in those painted eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul.

"The wolf is the perfect predator, Kasia. Silent. Patient. Lethal. To b?dziesz ty. B?dziesz moim wilkiem."

That's what you'll become. You'll be my wolf.

The Polish words scrape against old wounds like broken glass. I was five when he first brought me here, showed me this room. Five when he explained what I would become. When he told me that I belonged to him, that he would shape me into something magnificent.

My hands tremble, just for a moment. I clench them into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. The pain grounds me, reminds me why I'm here. Reminds me that I'm not his wolf anymore.

I'm my own. I'm the Red Widow, and I'm working for myself now.

Seven minutes. I need to move.