The Beginning of Sacrifice
Isabella
The cold night air bites at my skin as I’m pushed out of the safety of the cabin, forced to stand at the center of the clearing like a pawn caught between two forces. My legs feel weak beneath me, and I can barely keep my footing as I’m guided outside. The darkness wraps around me, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight of the eyes on me—laser sights from rifles, the sharp glint of gunmetal, all trained directly at my chest.
The cabin behind me now stands empty, its warmth and shelter a distant memory. Every corner of the house is a ghost, no longer offering any protection. Every inch of the yard is filled with the tension of a standoff, a battlefield where I don’t know the rules—where I am the only thing that matters.
Aslanov stands a few paces away, his face taut with intensity, his eyes scanning the other side, but they flicker back to me every now and then, as if making sure I’m still there, still breathing, still alive. I want to reach for him, to close the space between us, but I can’t. I’m stuck.
On one side, Aslanov and his men stand firm, armed, and unyielding, their dark silhouettes cutting imposing figures against the glow of the truck’s headlights. On the other, the tactical forces—FBI, SWAT, and local police—move in coordinated formation, their weapons raised and trained on every single figure in the standoff.
And in the very center of it all is me.
I stand frozen, trembling, my breath hitching as countless laser sights dance across my chest. The weight of the crosshairs feels like iron shackles, pinning me in place. My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out the distant shouts and barked commands.
“Hands where we can see them!” a commanding voice orders through a loudspeaker, sharp and unrelenting.
Aslanov and his men, their faces shadowed but their weapons gleaming under the harsh lights of the trucks. The disciplined rows of tactical forces across from them are a stark contrast, their precision and numbers overwhelming. Red laser dots crisscross the space, most converging on me—the fragile, trembling thread holding these opposing forces together.
I try to move, to step back, to do anything , but my legs feel like lead. My hands, raised instinctively, shake as I meet the cold, calculating eyes of the agents in front of me.
“Isabella Marie Brown!” a voice thunders from the loudspeaker, authoritative and piercing. “Step away from them! Place your hands on your head and get on your knees! You are under arrest for aiding and abetting a criminal fugitive!”
The clearing seems to shrink around me, the sharp bark of the agent’s voice reverberating in my skull. My ears ring as if every sound has been amplified, each shouted order, every shuffle of boots, every faint click of a safety being removed.
“Isabella!” the loudspeaker commands again, sharper this time, slicing through the tense air. “Step away from them! Place your hands on your head and get on your knees!”
The words make my chest tighten. I can’t move. My arms are frozen halfway, trembling uncontrollably as if my body refuses to obey even the simplest command.
“Aslanov…” I mumble when turning to find him in the chaos, my voice barely audible. My throat feels tight, and my breath is shallow and ragged. I glance toward him, desperate for guidance, but his expression is unreadable—a mask of calm that only makes the storm in my chest rage harder.
“Do it,” he says, his voice low, harsh, and unyielding. “Do as they say.”
My stomach twists at his cold tone, but his gaze doesn’t soften. His sharp, calculating eyes burn into mine as if willing me to comply. There’s no comfort in his expression, no reassurance—only steel and command.
Tears blur my vision as I nod jerkily, the movement barely perceptible. My knees feel like jelly, threatening to buckle beneath me as I force my shaking hands upward. Slowly, I lace my fingers behind my head, the humiliating vulnerability making my cheeks burn.
“Good,” the loudspeaker blares. “Now, get on your knees!”
The weight of the moment crashes down on me, suffocating. My breath hitches as I drop to the cold, hard ground, the sharp gravel biting into my skin through my jeans. I squeeze my eyes shut, hot tears slipping down my cheeks, the salty trails stinging against the icy night air.
A flurry of motion follows, fast and purposeful. I hear the pounding of boots against the earth, and then two figures loom over me, clad in black tactical gear with visors obscuring their faces. Their presence is overwhelming, a wall of authority and precision.
“Don’t move!” one of them barks, his voice sharp and guttural.
Rough, gloved hands grab my arms, jerking them back with an efficiency that leaves no room for resistance. The cold bite of metal encircles my wrists as handcuffs snap into place, the unforgiving steel digging into my skin. A sob bubbles in my chest, but I choke it down, biting hard on my lip to stifle the sound.
“Get her up,” one of the SWAT men says, his voice distant through the haze of my panic.
They haul me to my feet with little care for my shaking frame. My legs nearly give out, but their firm grip keeps me upright. One of them places a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place, while the other secures a firm grip on my arm, steering me away from the standoff.
Aslanov
The clearing is a battlefield of silence, the tension so thick it chokes the air. Rain begins to fall, a slow, deliberate drizzle that dampens the earth and slicks the barrels of countless guns. On one side, my men—loyal and unyielding, waiting for my command to unleash chaos. On the other, the tactical forces—a sea of black uniforms, their weapons steady, lasers painting jagged streaks through the haze.
And then, there’s her.
Isabella.
She kneels in the mud, trembling, her arms raised above her head as the rain streaks down her pale cheeks, mingling with the silent tears she can’t hold back. Her gaze, wide and terrified, is fixed on me, pleading silently.
“Isabella Marie Brown,” the loudspeaker commands again, sharp and unforgiving. “Step away from him! Place your hands on your head! You are under arrest for aiding and abetting a criminal fugitive!”
My jaw tightens at the words. My men shift behind me, eager for the order to open fire. My mind calculates every angle, every possibility. We could win. A precise volley, a retreat into the shadows—this field could be ours.
But my eyes don’t leave her.
She doesn’t move, her body shaking as the officer’s voice grows more demanding. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She’s caught in their web, and it takes everything in me not to rip her from their grasp.
“Isabella,” I say, my voice sharp and cold, cutting through the rainfall. “Do what they say.”
She flinches at the command, her tears falling faster now. The fear in her eyes cuts deeper than I want to admit, but I keep my face impassive, my voice devoid of softness. She doesn’t need tenderness now; she needs survival.
And this is how I will give her that.
Slowly, hesitantly, she rises to her feet, her hands trembling as she laces them behind her head. Rain drips from her hair, her frame is so small and fragile it twists something inside me—a dark, gnawing thing I can’t suppress.
“Now, get on your knees!” the agent barks.
She hesitates, just for a moment, before the strength leaves her legs and she collapses into the mud. The sound of her knees hitting the ground echoes louder than the rain.
And then they come for her.
The SWAT officers move in like predators, their heavy boots sinking into the earth as they close in on her. I don’t move, don’t speak, though every muscle in my body screams to intervene.
They seize her roughly, jerking her arms back as cuffs are snapped onto her delicate wrists. Her head bows, her wet hair hiding her face, but I can still see the trembling of her shoulders, the way her body shivers under their grasp.
One of them yanks her to her feet, and she stumbles, barely managing to stay upright. Her wide, tear-filled eyes find mine, and the silent plea there is enough to unravel every carefully constructed wall I’ve built around myself.
But I don’t let it show.
“Take her back,” one of the officers orders, his tone brisk.
As they pull her away, something inside me twists violently. The sight of her being dragged through the mud, her face pale and streaked with rain, ignites a fury I can’t suppress. She knows everything—every secret, every sin, every crime—and yet that’s not why this doesn’t sit right.
It’s her, and her confession earlier.
The way she looks at me like I’m something more than the monster I’ve become. The way her presence feels like a part of me I thought I lost—a flicker of warmth in the endless cold. I haven’t felt this since my sister’s laughter was silenced and my mother’s voice became a ghost.
Care. Protectiveness. Love.
The words are foreign, almost meaningless, but their weight presses against my chest as the rain turns heavy, drenching everything. My heart falters a single uneven beat that echoes louder than the storm.
I love her.
“Boss?” one of my men murmurs behind me, his tone hesitant. They’re waiting. They know we can take this fight, that we have the upper hand.
But I raise my hand, signaling them to hold.
I once told her I would go to extreme lengths for her, but never expected this.
The SWAT officer holding Isabella pauses, confused by the sudden stillness. The agents exchange glances, their weapons still trained on me, but the tension shifts.
“I said, stand down ,” I repeat, my voice carrying over the rain, calm and deliberate.
The world stops. The agents freeze. My men look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
The agent leading the charge steps forward cautiously, and for a moment, the sight of him sends a jolt through me.
Nick.
Of all the people I might have expected, it had to be him. My jaw tightens, but I force my expression to remain unreadable. How the fuck is he standing here? And how does he know my hideout? The radars in my head turn and turn.
He should be dead. Yet here he is, standing in the downpour, greyer hair than before, and with a jagged burn scar snaking up the side of his neck—a grotesque reminder of a night that should have ended differently.
He is entangled in the web of rats.
The shock fades quickly, buried under the cold calculation I’ve mastered, but the weight of his presence lingers, pressing against me like a ghost clawing its way back into the living. He’s alive, and somehow, that feels more dangerous than if he weren’t.
“Aslanov,” he says, his voice measured, “You’re surrounded. You can’t win this.”
I meet his gaze, my smirk cold and calculated. I don’t show a fraction of emotion even though this bastard knows my name, and that can’t be good. “That depends on your definition of winning.”
He narrows his eyes. “You can’t save her. She’s complicit in your crimes. She knows everything.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh. “Complicit? You don’t understand a thing about her.”
Nick hesitates, the rain dripping off his helmet as he studies me.
“I offer you a trade,” I say, my tone clipped and commanding. “You take me. Quietly. No resistance. But she walks away, free.”
Nick’s brow furrows. “You’d give yourself up for her?”
My smirk sharpens, but my voice is ice. “She’s nothing to me,” I lie, my tone biting, cruel. I see her flinch out of the corner of my eye, her shoulders stiffening, but I press on the next sentence comes out as a mere whisper, “But if you so much as touch her again, I’ll burn this clearing to the ground. Your choice, Nick.”
Nick’s brow furrows deeper, the weight of the offer hanging heavily in the rain-soaked air. The man is calculating, his sharp eyes scanning me, weighing the risk, but there’s hesitation in the set of his jaw. He’s doubting—considering—and I can’t afford to let him.
I step forward, ignoring the tightening grip of my men behind me, the weapons still aimed at my chest. My voice drops, low and venomous, cutting through the patter of the rain.
“Tick-tock, Nick,” I say, my smirk fading into something darker. “This hesitation of yours—it’s dangerous.”
Nick’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak.
I tilt my head, the faintest flicker of a smile curving my lips, though it holds no warmth. “You think this is about her? About me?” My voice is steel wrapped in smoke. “No, this is about you. ”
His hand flexes on the grip of his weapon, but he doesn’t lower it. “What are you trying to say, sick fuck?”
“I’m saying,” I continue, my tone sharp enough to draw blood, “you don’t understand the depths of what I can do. You stand there, playing the righteous soldier, but we both know the truth.” I lean in slightly, the rain slicking down my face, my gaze locked onto his like a predator scenting weakness.
“You have a wife, don’t you?” The words are slow, deliberate, and I savor the flicker of discomfort that crosses his face. “A daughter, perhaps?”
Nick’s expression hardens, but I see the flash of anger—of fear—in his eyes.
“Ah,” I murmur, my smirk growing. “I see it now. You do. A little girl, yes? How old is she, Nick? Five? Six? Does she have your eyes?”
“Shut your mouth,” Nick snaps, his voice tight with fury, but he doesn’t move.
I chuckle darkly, the sound low and menacing. “I could find her, you know. So easily. And if you think the men I have here are loyal, imagine the reach of the ones you don’t see.” I glance at the agents flanking him, my tone growing sharper. “You think this standoff ends with me? No, Nick. I don’t need to lift a finger for your entire world to come crumbling down.”
“Enough,” Nick growls, stepping closer now, his weapon raised higher.
I straighten, my smirk gone, replaced by cold, brutal certainty. My voice drops, laced with venom and something darker—a promise. “You think I won’t burn everything to the ground if you force my hand? You think I won’t make you regret every single moment you wasted here tonight?”
I take a step closer, my gaze piercing through the rain as it streams down my face. “You remember that night, don’t you, Nick? The flames, the screams, the chaos. I burned that place to ash and walked away without a second thought. But this time—” I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in, my tone turning into a low growl, intimate and deadly, “—this time, I’ll make sure you burn with it. I’ll watch the fire take everything you hold dear until there’s nothing left but smoke and silence.”
The rain intensifies, hammering down like a storm sent to drown us all.
I glance toward Isabella, her wide eyes locked on me, her body trembling against the officers holding her. My chest tightens, but I can’t let it show. I can’t let her know how much she matters to me.
“You take me,” I say, my voice slicing through the downpour, a command, not a plea. “You let her walk away, free, untouched. That’s the deal. But if you so much as breathe in her direction again?” I let the words hang in the air, heavy and threatening. “You’ll lose everything, Nick. Starting with her.”
Nick’s jaw tightens, his anger barely contained. The rain drips off his helmet, his gaze locked with mine. There’s a moment—just a breath—where the world seems to pause.
Finally, he nods, short and reluctant. “Release her,” he barks, his voice hard and edged with fury.
The SWAT officers uncuff Isabella, their hands dropping as she stumbles forward, her steps shaky and uneven. Her wide, tear-filled eyes dart to me, her lips trembling as if she’s about to speak.
Isabella
The rain feels colder now, slicing against my skin as I stumble forward, my legs barely able to hold me up. My head whips around, trying to find Aslanov through the chaos, my heart pounding so hard it drowns out the shouting voices and the roaring storm.
But all I can see is destruction.
One by one, his men are taken down, their defiance met with relentless force. Some drop their weapons when ordered, their faces blank, resigned. Others fight to the end, bodies slammed into the wet ground by the unrelenting SWAT team. The sound of rifles clattering to the dirt echoes in my ears, a sickening rhythm of defeat.
The chaos around me is deafening, but in the middle of it, there’s something that grabs my attention—something that freezes my blood and makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Through the haze of smoke, through the flashing lights and sounds of destruction, I see him.
Nick.
My old boss from the prison.
I never thought I’d see him again. After Aslanov broke out, and burned the entire prison to the ground, killing everyone in his path—including him. Or so I thought. No one ever spoke of him again. He wasn’t even in the reports I read back then with Ada. Aslanov’s escape had left no trace of the people inside, and I had assumed, like everyone else, that Nick had perished in that inferno.
But here he is.
Standing there, his silhouette sharp against the night, like he never left. How? How is he alive? How does he know where we are? How does he know Aslanov’s name?
My mind races, confusion thickening in my chest. My thoughts churn like a storm of their own as I try to piece it together, but nothing makes sense.
“Aslanov!” I scream, my voice hoarse, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s standing still, eerily calm as if none of this chaos touches him. Even as four SWAT officers close in, weapons trained on him, he doesn’t flinch.
His gaze, cold and sharp as ever, remains locked on Nick as if daring him to cross an unspoken line.
“Take him down,” Nick orders, his voice cutting through the storm, and my stomach lurches.
Four men move in unison, surrounding Aslanov. My breath catches as one of them grabs his arm, twisting it roughly behind his back. His body jerks slightly with the force, but he doesn’t resist.
“Don’t!” I scream, thrashing against the officer holding me, my voice raw. “Nick! Stop it!”
Another officer grabs his other arm, shackling his wrists with brutal efficiency. They move quickly, expertly, kicking his legs out from under him until he’s on his knees in the mud. The sight makes my chest ache, a hollow pain that steals the air from my lungs.
He doesn’t fight them. He lets them do it—lets them shackle his feet, chaining him like an animal. His head stays high, his expression unreadable, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the quiet fury simmering beneath the surface.
“Aslanov!” I cry again, my voice breaking. The officer holding me yanks me back, but I fight against his grip, my hands clawing at his arm.
Suddenly, a voice cuts through the chaos. “Isabella!”
I whip my head toward the sound, my soaked hair clinging to my face. For a moment, I think I’m hallucinating. Standing there, her face pale but determined is Ada.
Ada.
I blink rapidly, the rain mixing with the tears already streaking down my face. “A-Ada?” My voice cracks, disbelief etched into every syllable.
She reaches for me, her familiar kind eyes wide with urgency. Before I can process anything, she pulls me into her arms. The warmth of her embrace, even through the dampness, is enough to shatter what little composure I have left. A sob rips from my chest, and I clutch her tightly, burying my face in her shoulder.
“You’re here,” I cry, my words muffled against her jacket. “I—how—why are you here?”
“Shhh,” Ada murmurs, her voice soft but commanding. She strokes my rain-soaked hair, her fingers steady and grounding despite the chaos around us. “Not now, Isa. Don’t say anything. Not a word. Do you hear me? They can’t know anything.”
“But—” I try to pull back, to look at her face, to demand answers, but she tightens her grip, holding me firmly.
“Quiet,” she says again, more forcefully this time. Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Ada pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Her face is serious, her brows furrowed, but there’s something protective in her gaze. “I’m getting you out of here,” she says, her voice low but firm. “But you must stay quiet. You can’t let them know—” Her sentence breaks off, and she shakes her head, glancing over her shoulder at the officers swarming the scene. “Just trust me.”
Before I can respond, an officer steps forward, his tall frame blocking my view of the chaos behind him. “We need to move,” he barks at Ada, his tone clipped. “Get her out of here.”
“No!” I shout, trying to break free, my hands reaching toward the distant figure of Aslanov.
Ada grips my arm tightly, her fingers digging into my skin. “Isabella,” she says sharply, her voice cutting through my panic. “Look at me.”
I freeze, my tear-filled gaze snapping to hers. She’s unflinching, her expression hard but pained. “You have to let this happen,” she says. “If you don’t, they’ll take you too. He’s protecting you.”
I can barely see straight through my blurry eyes anymore.
In a brief gap between the chaos, I catch a glimpse of Aslanov. His head turns slightly, his piercing gaze finding mine through the downpour. Something flickers in his eyes—an emotion I feel in my heart—but it’s gone too quickly, replaced by that cold, impenetrable mask.
He sees me, his gaze cutting through the chaos. His eyes narrow, locking with mine for a long, unflinching moment. The world seems to fall away as I stare into those cold, calculating eyes, but there’s something deeper—something real—that I can’t ignore.
And then, just as quickly as it began, his gaze flicks away from me, landing on Ada. His face hardens, his jaw tightens, and with a single nod—subtle but deliberate—he tells her what she needs to hear.
Take me away.
The officers haul him to his feet, dragging him toward one of the armored trucks. The rain makes the chains on his wrists and ankles gleam, a cruel reminder of his surrender. He doesn’t look back at me again.
“Aslanov!” I scream one last time, my voice shattering like glass. But it’s too late.
The officer shoves me backward, and Ada wraps an arm around me, pulling me toward the line of vehicles. “Isabella,” she says, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “You have to trust me.”
I don’t answer her. I can’t. All I can do is look over my shoulder, the sight of him disappearing into the haze of rain and flashing lights tearing me apart from the inside.
As I turn away—his eyes never meeting mine again—I realize just how much I’ve underestimated him.
‘I can’t do that, love.’
He had failed to keep his heart hollow. The man who had built his empire on cruelty, who had surrounded himself with violence and darkness, had let me in. And in doing so, he’d unraveled everything he’d worked so hard to become. For me.
He did the one thing I wanted him to withhold from.
He had built walls so high that no one could climb them, crafted a mask so perfect that no one could see past it. But I had. I had slipped through the cracks, and in doing so, I had become his undoing.
And yet, he hadn’t fought it. He had let me in.
He loves me.
But love, in his world, is a death sentence. And he told me so, he warned me.
But it doesn’t feel like I’m the one who’s died. It feels like he took that sentence for me, leaving me here, alive, breathing, and yet utterly broken.
And as I stare at the empty road where the convoy disappeared, I realize something terrifying: the story isn’t over. Not for me. Not for him.
Because people like Aslanov don’t just vanish. They don’t let the world swallow them whole.
They come back. For revenge. For redemption. For love.
And somehow, I know, this isn’t the end.
It’s only the beginning.
A dangerous Beginning.