Page 22 of Silenced

“Why am I here?”

The bathroom entry is an open layout with no doors which serves my purpose more than the architect could ever have imagined. The passage is shielded by a wall that can be accessed on either side—no doors.

No locks.

No escape.

As I walk inside, she sighs as I carefully sit her on the vanity.

Shoulders rounding, she stares at me, exhaustion lining her expression, fatigue seeming to draw her deeper into a slouch.

“I don’t think I have the energy to shower,” she admits wistfully.

Of course, she doesn’t—she’s been drugged and abused but she’s covered in vomit.

I tug at the knot of my necktie, enough that I can draw it over my head. Her brow furrows as she watches me drop my suit jacket to the floor, her confusion deepening when I work on the shoulder holster which houses my knife. Placing that on the opposite side of the vanity, on a shelf that’s too high for her to reach, I start unbuttoning my Oxford.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her eyes widening as I let the silk fall to the tiles too.

It’s when I start on my belt buckle that she both amazes meandeducates me—she’s a runner.

With a nimble spryness I didn’t anticipate because of her fragility, one that can only be born of an adrenaline rush, she jumps down to the floor, lets go of the sheet that swaddles her, ducks to grab my suit jacket, and takes off out of the bathroom.

She manages to slide the sports coat onto her shoulders, but as her hand closes around the doorknob, it’s too late for her.

It was too late the minute I closed it.

It’s self-locking.

Unusual for a bedroom door, but not for a Pakhan with more enemies than friends.

Chest heaving as her energy abates, she presses her forehead to the glossy ash and starts tugging on the knob as if trying enough times will make the mechanism work for her.

It won’t.

With a snarl that does things to my dick, which has no business reacting right now, she twists to face me and shoves her back against the aperture.

Dressed only in my suit jacket and her underwear, rage streaking through her eyes like Lichtenberg figures, the power reminiscent of the burning fires of Hell, she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Stamping down the urges she’s in no position to handle, I tip my head to the side as I study her.

Then, I hold out a hand for her in silent invitation.

Her gaze flickers to it, eyes dancing over the scars and nicks from years of fighting, before she hisses, “Who are you?”

My hand remains outstretched.

She ignores it to demand in broken Russian, “Debt has Harvey?”

When I don’t reply, she weakly stomps her foot. It’s ridiculously endearing until her legs give out from under her.

When she sags onto the floor, my sports coat puddling around her, the dark silk offsetting her bright gold hair, every part of me lights up in response. Not to her weakness, but to herexistence.

She’s shrouded in my clothes, in a room that belongs to me, under a roof that I possess—I’ve successfully caged sunlight.

I own it.

Ownher.

---