KAIRA.
I woke up to silence.
A silence that felt heavy and unusual.
For a few seconds, I didn’t move.
My body felt too heavy, my head pounding like something had cracked inside it.
My throat was dry.
My limbs ached.
I stared at the ceiling adorned with gold molding.
This wasn’t my room.
I sat up too fast, the pain shot through my skull.
The room spun and my gaze dazed.
“Shit—” I muttered as I pressed a hand to my forehead and forced myself to breathe.
The room was beautiful, large and luxurious.
It looked like the kind of room rich people showed off in magazines.
Where was i, I wondered.
Then the memory hit me.
The rain.
The blood.
My mother’s cold hand.
The flash of a gun pointed at me.
That voice.
My home going up in flames.
“No,” I choked out, scrambling out of the massive bed.
I stumbled to the door and yanked the handle.
Locked.
I ran to the windows, but they were reinforced glass, overlooking a sprawling estate that looked more like a fortress than a home.
Panic got louder, but I forced it to be quiet.
I needed a weapon, and at this moment, anything will suffice.
My eyes landed on a heavy glass lantern on the bedside table.
I didn’t hesitate.
I smashed it against the edge of the nightstand and gripped the largest piece of jagged glass.
Then I heard footsteps and soon after, the lock turned.
I moved fast and pressed myself behind the door, gripping the broken glass so tightly.
The door swung open.
A young woman in uniform stepped in.
“Miss Voss?
Mr.
Redd has requested your presence for break—”
I didn’t let her finish.
I lunged, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing the jagged glass against her jugular.
“Don’t make a sound,” I hissed into her ear.
I dragged her out into the hallway.
Immediately, four guards in black suits snapped their weapons up, the red dots of their laser sights dancing across my chest.
“Drop the glass!” one shouted.
“Let me out of here, or she dies!” I yelled back, my voice trembling with a shoot of adrenaline.
“I mean it!
Let me go!”
The maid whimpered but the guards didn’t move, they kept their focus and gun still pointed at me.
Then I heard footsteps.
“You’re making quite a mess, Kaira.”
Halston appeared at the top of the stairs.
He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that looked like they were carved from granite, and a black office pants.
He looked bored.
“Tell them to move!” I tightened my grip on the maid.
She was sobbing, the sound high and pathetic but I tried to ignore it.
“Or I’ll kill her, Halston!
I swear to God!”
I expected him to negotiate, threaten or give conditions instead, he walked forward, took the gun from one of the guards, and before my brain could process what was happening, he pulled the trigger.
The sound exploded through the hallway.
The maid jerked in my arms then went still.
Her warm blood hit my hand.
My entire body froze.
For one second, the world stopped, then she slipped from my grip and hit the floor.
Dead.
Just like that.
I stared at her, at the neat, dark hole centered perfectly in her forehead, at blood, then at him.
Horror and fury crashed together so violently I thought I might choke.
Halston lowered the gun and looked at me almost lazily.
“Done,” he said with the faintest lift of one brow.
“Pretty easy, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t speak.
He handed the gun back to the guard.
“Bring her downstairs.
She’s late for breakfast.” He turned and walked away, like he hadn’t just ended a life over breakfast.
The guards grabbed me, I fought and tried to resist but grief and rage aren’t stronger than trained men.
They dragged me downstairs, into the dining room and forced me into a chair across from Halston.
A plate of eggs and smoked salmon sat before me, looking nauseatingly bright.
Across from me, Halston was cutting into a piece of toast.
I stared at him, the calm way he held his fork made me sick to my stomach.
“You just killed her,” I whispered, my voice hollow.
“She was just…
she was doing her job and you wasted a soul.”
He cut into his food.
“You were going to kill her.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I objected.
“You threatened to.”
“That’s different.” My voice got louder this time.
He looked up finally.
“Not to the dead.” He gestured lightly to the food.
“Now eat.”
God, I hated him, I hated how he found ease to say what he says.
“Starving yourself won’t resurrect her, and it certainly won’t make me pity you.” He looked back again at his plate.
The rage hit me harder.
I grabbed the butter knife from the table and flung it at his head.
He didn’t even flinch—he just tilted his head an inch to the left, letting the blade clatter harmlessly against the wall behind him.
He looked at the knife, then at me and smirked.
I sat there breathing hard, giving him the kind of stare usually reserved for murder trials.
My hands curled into fists under the table as he kept on eating.
When he finally finished, he stood up, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and adjusted his sleeves.
As he walked past my chair, my hand moved on its own.
I snatched the silver fork from my plate and lunged for his shoulder, intending to bury the prongs in his flesh but he was faster.
He caught my wrist mid-air.
Pain shot up my arm.
I barely had time to react before his other hand wrapped around my throat.
I gasped as the air left my lungs, clawing at his wrist as he slammed me against the wall.
Before I could recover, his hand was around my throat, lifting me off my feet and throwing me onto the living room couch.
He followed me down, pinning me with a hand braced beside my head, the other hand tightening around my neck—not enough to kill me, but enough to make every breath a struggle.
“Do you think your parents were the victims?” he whispered, his face inches from mine.
I said nothing but stared up at him, fiercely matching his gaze.
“Your father was a parasite.
He betrayed my family.
He fed information to the people who put my parents in the ground.
Because of that choice, my parents died.”
I tried to shake my head, but his grip was iron.
“You’re lying” I spat.
“I wish I was.” He said as he leaned closer.
“The man you spent your life calling father destroyed mine.”
Tears burned my eyes again, but I refused to let them fall.
“No.” I muttered.
“He sold you the same way he sold everyone else.” His tone heavier.
I shook my head, “no.”
But doubt is cruel, because once it enters, it stays.
Then he said the worst part, quietly.
“I’m just getting started with you, Kaira Voss,” he growled, his eyes darkening until they were almost black.
“By the time I’m done, you’ll wish for death, but you won’t see it coming.”
He let go abruptly, leaving me gasping and shivering on the leather.
He walked away without a backward glance.
I didn’t know what hurt more—my parents being dead or the possibility that maybe I had never known them at all.
A few minutes later, his right-hand man—the one who had watched the breakfast disaster expressionless—came into the living room.
Tall.
Sharp suit.
Calm eyes.
Dangerous in a quieter way.
He walked over and handed me a folded envelope, stained with blood.
He finally spoke.
“Your father left this for you.” Then turned and walked away.
My blood ran cold, the envelope was stained with the blood of my parents.
I sat there, staring at it, holding the last thing my father would ever say to me.