Page 11 of Defiant Devotion

Hours had passed. The night had fallen and receded. Time still carried on in a blur, though, and I hoped this shell-shocked fugue would lift.

I did it.

I’m out.

I’mfree.

But as I hunkered down in the trees out here, spying on this lonely little house in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t homebound just yet.

I had no phone. No money. No clothes except the bloody, torn ones I wore now. Slippers covered my freezing, raw feet. While I had no idea how far I was from New York, how distant I was from the Baranov mansion I longed to return to, I was well aware that I had a journey to survive.

Getting out of captivity was the initial phase of reclaiming my life.

But ensuring I was back to safety and out of the Ilyins’ reach was another challenge.

I blinked, preventing more of the cool spring drizzle from dripping into my eyes. Moving my eyelids was all the motion I wanted to allow as I tensed and debated.

No one had gone into that house. No one had exited either. And I’d know. I had been watching the building since the darkest hour of the night. Now in the morning, as the sun rose through the gray sky, I waited some more to guess whether this place would be safe.

Banking on the goodwill of strangers felt so risky, but I wasn’t naïve to think I could get home like this, on my own.

Forcing down a swallow, I ignored the hunger pangs that wouldn’t quit. My mouth and throat were so dry and raw, too. Water would be a blessing. Food would help too. But no matter how long I sat and crouched out here like a wild animal on the run, I wouldn’t know if the residents in that small house would lend me a hand until I asked.

Just get closer. See if anyone’s there.

I stood, wincing at the pain of staying low for so long. The wet cold wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I was here. I was alive and able to choose my own path for the first time in over a decade. Mafia princesses were expected to be pampered and spoiled, but those had both been beaten out of me years ago. I would set the bar low.

Leaves crunched underfoot as I gingerly advanced toward the house. My stomach remained tied in knots, but every difficult swallow I managed pushed that nausea back.

Someone’s in there.The lights shining from behind the curtains was proof. Tantalizing and addicting, the scent of a meaty stew cooking inside suggested someone was making a meal.

Growls erupted from my stomach, but I ignored them, determined to reach the door.

Please, please don’t be scared.

Please care enough to help me.

Please.

I looked a fright, muddy, bloody, and worn ragged. But I didn’t pose a threat. I couldn’t, not when I was so weak and desperate for help.

Shit.

The knife.

This thin scrap of metal was supposed to be used for spreading butter, but with the blood coated on it, Iwouldlook deranged and deadly. Trembling with the energy needed to move, I lowered my arm to drop the butter knife. I couldn’t knock on a door and beg for help when I held a weapon, but my panic rose with giving up my only means of defense.

Thumping onto the welcome mat at the door, the knife settled on the surface. Within seconds, the rain pattered down on it and began to rinse it clean.

I raised my hand to knock on the door. Even that pressure stung my cold knuckles, sore from fighting the Ilyin guard yesterday morning. Before I lost the willpower to stand much longer, I nudged the butter knife aside until it scooted off the mat. It slid, falling into the mulch and leaves beneath a bush.

Footsteps sounded inside. Light and quick, they approached the door.

Please be a woman. Please be a kind, sweet, generous stranger of a woman.

As if I’d jinxed it, louder, heavier footsteps joined in.

Dammit.

---