Page 10 of Wasted Grace

I lift my chin.

“Run before you meet your maker.”

He laughs.

A sharp, barking sound—too loud for the silence that preceded it. Then he leans in, grabs my jaw, and spits right in my face. Thick and deliberate.

My skin burns, but I don’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.

“What you tell them?” he snarls. “What you give your handler?”

I don’t answer. Just blink slowly, wipe the spit off my cheek with my shoulder, and tilt my head.

That enrages him more. He kicks the chair hard, rattling my bones. “What you know about Project Solh?”

I freeze. Just for a second.

That name. That’s what they’re calling it?

I know pieces. Fragments. Quiet whispers behind closed doors. Muted conversations over static-filled radio. Solh—Peace. That’s what it means. A poetic name for a plan so vile.

They’re planning to attack the Indian Parliament again.

Only this time, it’s not just a warning.

This time, they want aftermath.

But I don’t know what. And I don’t guess.

I smirk up at him and simply shrug.

He roars, grabs a blade off the nearby table, and presses it to my throat. The cold steel kisses my skin.

Still, I don’t move.

“Careful,” I whisper, “Eshgham.” My love.

I say it with venom. Mocking. Knowing exactly what I’m doing.

His eyes blaze. His hand jerks.

The blade slices. Once. Twice. Three times. Across my cheek.

Fuck, that’s going to leave a scar—on me or... my body. If I live through this.

Which... let’s be honest, I won’t.

I can feel the blood sliding down my face. Warm. Slow.

My vision swims.

Then—

BOOM.

The sound of the front door exploding shatters the air.

A burst of lighter-scented dust clouds the room. Splinters fly. Walls rattle. My ears ring.