Page 113 of Vow of Silence

It feels so wrong to wait around to die.

I can’t hear anything save for the pounding of my blood rushing past my ears. “Give me a gun.”

Wide eyes glance toward me before Dmitry faces the door and growls a low “No.”

“I can help.”

Dmitry opens his mouth to protest, yet neither of us hear a single word. A gunshot echoes through the foyer, followed by two more in quick succession from a different weapon.

Dmitry spins on his heel and rises in one fluid, graceful movement, shielding me from the doors that lead out to the front of the house. “Stay quiet.” He whispers the order, hand to his side, slowly unholstering his weapon.

A scuffle ensues in the foyer, the grunt of men preceding the heavy thud of what must be bodies against the wall.

“Hide yourself.” Dmitry points toward the bookcase. “As we practiced.”

I haven’t done this for years. Drills would be commonplace at the height of my father’s reign over his half of the city. But as his power waned, so did the threats. I back away from the sofa, facing Dmitry as he moves toward the door, and slide around the back of the furniture. He glances toward me, checking my position as he reaches for the handle. I lower myself to my knees, praying like fuck that after a decade, I still fit through the hidden panic door. They were never made large enough for adults; the smaller they are, the easier they’re hidden. The grown-ups are expected to stay and fight—these were only for the kids.

The thing is, I’m a goddamn adult now, so why won’t he let me fight?

Setting my hand against the spines of two thick hardbacks, I push toward the rear of the bookcase to trigger the pressure panel. The catch clicks, a gentle tick in an otherwise eerily quiet room. Sparing one last look toward the man who’s kept my family safe for as long as I can remember, I edge the small hatch open, the section of the case turning on its axis to reveal a slim corridor.

Darkness envelops me, a shiver of a memory from the night I lost Caroline chilling my bones as I twist and contort myself into the narrow space between the walls. My hand shakes, my fingers limp when I reach behind me for the metal ring on the rear of the panel and shut myself inside.

It’s darker than Hades and probably twice as dusty.

I stifle a cough.

My grip leaves the cool metal ring, arm falling to my stomach where I’m wedged awkwardly on my side. A resounding crash vibrates the floor beneath me. Dust-filled breath tight in my lungs, I still my chest and listen.

For anything.

Painfully quiet seconds pass before the vicious tones of Dmitry’s war cry seep through the plasterboard that divides us.

Gunshots, grunts, and war.

I roll to my hands and knees and close my eyes, operating on pure memory alone. I don’t know how far I can go or how far these spaces still run. All I know is that if I want to escape death a second time, I can’t leave it up to somebody else to save me.

In this story, the princess saves herself.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Benito

Fucking knew I shouldn’t have left her alone. I thought she’d be okay. I figured all my bride-to-be needed was a little time and space to sort through things at her own pace, and the best thing I could do was grant her that little reprieve while I sorted the snake amongst our grass.

Now, here I am, wondering what sort of husband I’ll make if this is how I fail to protect her.

I never thought he’d be this bold.

My hands shake on the wheel, handgun still tucked beneath the palm of my right hand. My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror—the road empty. I’ve got no idea how far behind me the others are. I tore out of the house and ripped down the driveway before my father had a chance to order a car brought around.

I jerk the wheel and slam on the brakes, skidding to a stop before the Kuznetsov’s gate. The iron doesn’t slide out of my way, and no face is visible in the security booth. A quick tryst out of the car finds the reason for the delay: the fucker lies on the floor of the guard post with a goddamn bullet through his head. Motherfucker never stood a chance.I slam my palm on the button that allows me access and tear back to the car. The Defender’s tires kick up stones, engine roaring as I huss thevehicle to a stop outside the house, not concerned with the noise I create.

He’ll know I’m here.

I could wager that the fuckerexpectsme to come.

I’m frustrated, done with this bullshit, done with the mess that my life creates.

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