Page 8 of Silenced

Because I fucking can.

Eyes alight with glee, I pop the trunk and retrieve a set of gloves from the inside pocket of my sports coat.

After sliding them on, I yank off some of Marku’s hair. He groans so I punch him in the face until he’s knocked out again, then accidentally on purpose catch his head with the trunk lid as I slam it closed.

Dmitri, acting like my shadow as usual, appears with a small plastic baggie in his hand.

Tucking the strands inside it, I watch as he seals the bag.

He’ll need to open it sooner rather than later, but I don’t bother stopping him.

Then, I’m back on track.

This time, I don’t bother with the lock-picking kit, I just slam my shoulder once,twiceinto the door and break through the opening.

I click my fingers at Dmitri who scurries forward. I point at two places on the doorjamb and motion at the baggie. “Make sure his DNA leaves a mark on this place.”

With that task delegated, I make my way over to Cassiopeia.

That’s when I get my first glimpse at her.

And I freeze to a halt.

She’s fucking beautiful.

More than that, she’sstunning.

With so much blonde hair that my gloved hands ball into fists as the desire to feel that tangible golden silk between my fingers overtakes me.

She has a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. Her eyelashes, long and thick, rest atop the crown of her cheeks, but there are shadows beneath them, and a frown puckers her mouth as if she’s in discomfort even as she’s unconscious.

Her lips are doll-like, her skin too—porcelain. A dainty nose, softly sloping golden brows…

My God, she’s the most enchanting creature I’ve ever seen andthat fucking hair.

Blyad.

It makes her seem as if she’s glowing.

Amid the filth of this tawdry motel room, on a floor that was clean the last time Reagan was in office, she’s like the sun peering through the shadows.

But she’s still—not even my breaking down the door roused her. This near, Icansee the faintest of movements as her chest rises and falls with stuttered breaths…

Alive.

The relief I feel is unnerving. Especially as her corpse would serve me better in fucking with the Albanians, but she’s…

Solnyshko.

The term of endearment slips into my thoughts.

‘Little sun.’

She’s untouched, free from bruises aside from at her ankle where she’s cuffed and her hands appear to be grazed. Otherwise, she’s utterly serene in her stillness…

Persephone on a bed of miserable flowers just waiting for Hades to save her.

“Look at that hair,” Dmitri mutters behind me, jerking my attention from her and directing it onto him. “Is she Russian? She has to be. Man, it’s been years since I’ve seen hair that blon—”

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