Page 46 of Under His Protection

“H-he kept me here,” she says, her voice barely audible.

“For all those years?” I ask, my stomach turning. Over four years. The realization hits me with a force that makes me stagger back.

Emily, gone. Trapped here all this time.

She nods slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor, a fragile, broken bird. “I came to break up with him one day,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Here. We were seeing each other, and I wanted to end it. He was—possessive. Violent. And I—I never left.”

The pieces of the puzzle slam together, a horrifying mosaic of truth. My fears were real. It was her room we were thrown into, the sterile white and gray, the bed, the bedside table, it all makes sense now. She was bolted inside that room, trapped in her own personal hell all those years. The thought makes me sick.

“That asshole,” I spit, my anger a sudden, fierce blaze. I reach out, wanting to comfort and smooth back her hair, but she flinches away from my touch.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry, Emily.”

Her eyes well up, a silent plea etched on her face. “My family,” she gasps. “Do you know anything about them? Do they know I’m alive?”

I shake my head, her question crushing me. “I—I don’t know anything.”

I wish I did, Emily.

My eyes narrow, a realization dawning. “But wait – why are you here? In this container? With us?”

I twist a strand of hair around my finger, listening. The silence in the crate is a thick, viscous liquid, slow and suffocating, seeping into my pores, stealing my breath.

“He got tired of me,” Emily says, her voice strained like she’s pushing a boulder uphill. “He got tired of my performances in the red room— I’m weak. I haven’t seen the sun in years. They— they put something in my food, in my drinks. He said it was time to ship me off. To some other men—- to play with. Something like that.”

“He can’t do this,” I say, my voice tight. “Why hasn’t anyone stopped him?”

“They can’t stop him, Ava. I mean — I think this is his first big shipment of—humans, of women, but that’s not all. He controls things, people —” Emily says. “He’s been working on it for years. He wants to take control of the crime ring of the whole state. And he wants to punish the Bournes. He—he told me all about them— and you. You’re Ava, right?”

I nod, my mind racing. The pieces are falling into place, a terrifying picture of Cole’s grand plan.

“And—why now?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Why bring out the Raven or whatever the hell he calls himself?”

“He’s been working on this for over a year now,” Emily says, her voice gaining strength, her eyes blazing with a small fire. “Keeping a low profile. Taking back the Veles Network and anyone still loyal to him after the mess with Dexter. Killing people. Men that were loyal to Dexter— to Alexander—”

So Cole is killing them off, not Dexter.

“You know about Alexander?” I ask, my heart pounding. The thought of him, of what Cole might do, is a gut punch.

“He needs him, or needed him —” Emily says, her gaze meeting mine, a dark intensity in her eyes. “For his planned revenge, and for—EverBlue Group. He will kill Alexander eventually and take over EverBlue Group, making it a front for human trafficking.”

“And he— he just told you all of this?” I can’t believe it. It’s too much. This is a twisted nightmare.

Emily nods slowly. “He said he loved me. We— we slept in the same bed every night, Ava. He stroked my hair and told me about his day—”

“Knowing you’d never leave,” I finish.

Cole isn’t just a criminal. He’s a monster. A predator, a manipulator who uses love as a weapon. He wraps his arms around his victims, a silken web that traps them.

My stomach clenches. I want to puke. I slide down the metal wall, landing beside Emily, my shoulders bruising against her shoulder. I can feel the bone.

I look at the other girls. They’re all trapped here. But the sight of them, their fear, their desperation, ignites a fire in me. A spark of something —

“What are your names?” I ask, my voice firm. “Where are you from?”

A young woman with dark, frightened eyes and long, dark braids speaks up. “Tanya. From Russia, I came — work, illegally. I met Gregory, and next thing— I’m inside a container,” she sniffs.

Another girl, her face puffy and red from crying, whispers, “Sofia.” Her blonde hair hangs limply around her shoulders. “From Moscow. I friend—Tanya.”

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