Page 12

The silence in the room is oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of the trees outside the window. I sit on the edge of the bed, my leg throbbing in time with my heartbeat. The faint light of dawn seeps through the blinds, casting long shadows across the cold, empty room. I haven’t slept. How could I? Every time I close my eyes, I see Serge’s face—cold, angry, unyielding.

The sunrise is dull, muted by thick gray clouds rolling in over the horizon. It matches my mood perfectly. I’ve spent hours trying to piece together my next move, but the pain and fatigue make it hard to think straight. My stomach twists uncomfortably, not just from hunger but from the gnawing anxiety clawing at me. My children. I have no idea where they are or if they’re safe. I can only hope Hannah followed the plan.

A creak in the hallway snaps me out of my thoughts. Roman steps into the room, a tray in his hands. The smell of eggs and toast wafts toward me, and my stomach growls involuntarily. He sets the tray down on the small table by the window without a word, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Finally decided to feed me?” My voice is hoarse from disuse, but I manage to lace it with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

Roman doesn’t rise to the bait. “Eat,” he says simply, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

I hobble over to the table, every step sending a fresh wave of pain up my leg. It takes all my strength not to let him see how much it hurts. I sit down and pick up the fork, eyeing him warily.

“You’re watching me like I’m going to attack you with a piece of toast,” I say dryly.

He smirks faintly but says nothing. I take a bite, the food warm and surprisingly good. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it, but the reprieve doesn’t last long. I set the fork down and meet his gaze.

“Do you have them?” My voice is quiet, but there’s steel behind it. “The children.”

Roman’s expression flickers, just for a second, but it’s enough to confirm my suspicions. He knows something.

“They’re not here,” he says finally.

Relief washes over me, so intense that it leaves me dizzy. “Good,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself.

Roman tilts his head slightly, watching me with something akin to curiosity. “You seem awfully calm for someone in your position.”

I shrug, forcing a smirk. “Maybe I’m just better at playing the game than you think.”

He doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes. Roman might be Serge’s loyal lieutenant, but he’s not entirely unfeeling. He knows I’m a mother, and somewhere deep down, that must mean something to him.

“Where are they?” he asks, his tone almost casual, though I can hear the undercurrent of tension.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “You think I’d tell you?”

Roman lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Of course not. I thought I’d give you the chance.”

I pick up the fork again, taking another bite of the eggs. They’re cold now, but I barely notice. My thoughts are spinning, trying to figure out how much Roman knows and how much of it is a bluff.

“You don’t need to worry about them,” I say finally, my voice steady. “She knows what to do”

His eyes narrow slightly. “She?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, leaning back in the chair, “but she’s their babysitter. She knows enough to keep them safe but not enough to be a threat. It’s called planning, Roman. You should try it sometime.”

He doesn’t rise to the provocation, but his jaw tightens ever so slightly. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s spent the night under Serge’s roof.”

My smile is sharp, brittle. “You think Serge scares me?”

Roman pushes off the wall, stepping closer. His gaze is piercing, unrelenting. “He should.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to back down, even though my heart is pounding in my chest. “If he had them, he would have told me by now,” I say quietly. “That means they’re out of his reach. As long as they’re safe, I can handle whatever he throws at me.”

Roman studies me for a long moment before stepping back. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Chiara.”

“Then we have that in common,” I shoot back, picking up the toast and taking a defiant bite.

He shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Enjoy your breakfast. You’ll need the strength.”

With that, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders sagging as the tension drains out of me. My leg throbs dully, a constant reminder of how close I came to losing everything.

I glance at the window, the dreary morning light casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere out there, my children are safe. I cling to that thought like a lifeline, even as the walls close in around me.

I pick at the eggs for a while longer, chewing mechanically as my thoughts churn. Roman’s words replay in my mind, but I push them aside. At least for now, I know my twins are safe. That’s the one solace I have in this twisted situation. I clear the plate, leaving no scraps, because who knows when Serge might decide I don’t deserve another meal.

The door creaks open, and my heart lurches. Serge steps inside, his presence commanding as always. He leans against the doorframe, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on me.

“Finished?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

I nod, pushing the tray aside. “I guess you’re not here to bring dessert.”

His lips curve into a faint smirk. “Not quite. I thought you might want to clean up. There’s a bathroom across the hall.”

I hesitate, glancing at him warily. “You’re just going to let me wander around unsupervised?”

He arches a brow. “I’ll be outside the door. Don’t get any ideas.”

Of course. I’m a prisoner, not a guest. I rise slowly, my leg still aching, and follow him out into the hallway. He stops in front of a door and gestures for me to enter.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Ten minutes. That’s hardly enough time to scrub away the grime of the last twenty-four hours, but I’ll take what I can get. I step inside and shut the door, locking it behind me. The bathroom is small but clean, with a sleek, modern design that seems out of place in this rustic house.

I turn on the shower, letting the water run until steam begins to fill the room. Stripping off my clothes, I step under the hot spray, a sigh escaping my lips as the warmth soothes my sore muscles. The water cascades over me, washing away the dirt, the fear, and the tension that have clung to me like a second skin.

For a moment, I let myself relax, closing my eyes and tilting my head back. The steam envelops me, softening the sharp edges of reality. I lather my skin with the bar of soap provided, scrubbing harder than necessary as if I can erase the events of the last few days. My fingers linger on the bruises forming around my wrist and leg, reminders of my crash and Serge’s hold over me.

A sharp knock on the door jolts me back to reality. “Time’s up,” Serge calls out, his voice muffled but firm.

“Give me five more minutes,” I shout back, my tone sharper than I intended.

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Three.”

I roll my eyes but savor the remaining moments, rinsing off and wrapping myself in a fluffy towel. My hair drips down my back as I step out of the shower, my skin pink from the heat. I glance around and spot a neatly folded shirt on the counter. It’s Serge’s. My own clothes are crumpled and dirty, unsuitable to wear again. With a resigned sigh, I pull on the oversized shirt and my jeans, leaving my wet hair wrapped in the towel.

When I open the door, Serge is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the shirt.

“You look good,” he says, his tone low and deliberate. “Better than I expected.”

I glare at him, my cheeks heating despite myself. “It’s your shirt, you couldn’t even get me something that fits?”

He smirks, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. His height and presence make the hallway feel smaller. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way his eyes linger on my bare legs where the shirt doesn’t quite cover. “Well, enjoy the view. It’s all you’re getting.”

His smirk widens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps aside and gestures for me to follow him. “Come on. You’re not done answering my questions yet.”

With a sigh, I trail after him, the damp towel still perched atop my head. Whatever Serge has planned, I can’t let him see how much he affects me. Not now. Not ever.

We walk down the hallway, the sound of my bare feet soft against the wooden floor. Serge leads the way, his stride confident and unhurried, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his profile when he glances back to make sure I’m following.

When we reach the small sitting room, he motions for me to take a seat. I lower myself onto the couch cautiously, keeping my towel-wrapped hair in place as I sit back. Serge leans against the doorframe, his piercing gaze fixed on me.

“You’ve been quiet since the crash,” he says, his tone casual but laced with something darker. “No schemes, no attempts to run? That’s not like you.”

“Maybe I’ve learned my lesson,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting.”

His brows lift in mock surprise. “You, tired of fighting? That’s hard to believe.”

I shrug, ignoring the flutter of nerves in my chest. “Maybe I know when I’m outmatched.”

For a brief moment, something flickers in his expression—an emotion I can’t quite place. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because you are.”

I don’t respond, holding his gaze despite the chill his words send down my spine. Serge studies me for a moment longer, then turns toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he says over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we leave for Chicago.”

As he walks away, I lean back against the couch, my fingers twisting the hem of his oversized shirt. The fear is there, simmering beneath the surface, but so is something else. Something I can’t name, and something I wish I didn’t feel.