Page 42 of Under His Protection

The photo, Emily’s wide eyes, Cole’s chilling words, the reality of the prison bedroom—it all converges into a terrifying truth. We are trapped in the lair of a monster, someone who hides his true nature behind a mask of charm and success.

And I have no idea what he has planned for us.

Chapter 15

The Suffering

Hours bleed into eternity. The bulb in the ceiling lights buzz incessantly, like a relentless insect trapped in a glass cage. I sit huddled on the floor, my back against the white sterile wall, my bare arms wrapping around my knees, trying to ward off the chill that seeps from the very core of the building.

Cole’s words, “Alexander gets to suffer the consequences,” play on a loop in my mind, each repetition twisting the knife into my gut.

It is a twisted kind of justice, punishing a son for the sins of his father. But then again, what do I know about justice?

A reckless act shattered my own life, the car crash that took my parents, a teenage joyride fueled by Michelle’s anger. She was a wild spirit, a rebellious soul trapped in a world that didn't understand her. A world of neglectful parents and a cold, cruel reality that had no space for someone like her.

Is it fair? To her, trapped in a cage of her own making? To me, left to grapple with the aftermath of her impulsive act? To my parents, ripped away in a blink? This world isn't just, and it never has been. It's a twisted game of chance, a cruel roulette wheel where the stakes are always life and death.

My gaze drifts to Alexander’s sister, curled up on the floor, her breathing shallow. The purple bruise around her eye makes my stomach clench. Her broken wrist is wrapped in a makeshift bandage of my pajamas.

We’re trapped. The realization is a cold stone settling in my stomach. He’s going to kill us. He’s going to kill Alexander.

I have to find a way out.

I scan the cell again, searching for a weakness, a crack in Cole’s meticulously constructed safe room. The door, a slab of steel, is impenetrable. The walls, cold and smooth, offer no purchase. There are no windows, ventilation grates, or way to see the outside world. Hope, a fragile butterfly, flutters its wings and dies within me.

Michelle stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips. She shifts on the floor, cradling her injured wrist, her face contorted with pain.

“Michelle,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

She opens her eyes. They are dulled with pain. “Like I’ve been run over by a bleat truck,” she mumbles, her voice a hoarse rasp. “Fuck.”

I offer her a weak smile. “Try to rest. We’ll figure something out.”

But even as I speak the words, I know they are hollow. The hours drag by, and each tick of my watch is a tiny hammer blow against my sanity.

My eyelids grow heavy, but sleep is a fleeting dream, chased away by nightmares of Cole’s cold eyes and the echo of Alexander’s cries.

I don’t know how many hours have passed when suddenly Cole stands in the doorway, his sandy hair perfectly coiffed, and his crisp white shirt looks newly ironed. His steely eyes sweep over us, taking in our disheveled appearance.

“Get them ready,” he commands. “We move tonight.”

“Move what?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer; he just offers a smirk. “You’ll see soon enough, peach.”

Two burly men, their faces expressionless, enter the cell. They grab us roughly, their hands like iron clamps, and drag us down a maze of corridors. The white walls blur as I try not to resist.

Resisting is futile. It just makes them want more.

They shove us into another room, smaller than the previous one but no less sterile. A woman with severe features and gray hair pulled back into a tight bun stands waiting. Her eyes, a piercing blue, assess us with a cold efficiency.

“Ah, the devushki,” she says, her voice thick with a Russian accent. “Come, come, we must make you presentable.”

She gestures towards a pile of clothes on a table. “Change,” she commands. “And be quick about it, da?”

“Leave, men,” she spits, shoving the men out of the room with a wave of her hand.

She turns to Michelle, her gaze lingering on her injured wrist. “Let me see that, dushka.”

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