Chapter 36 Estella
The first sense that trickles back into my body is taste. Bitter, acidic, corrosive. My tongue tries to shove it out, rolling clumsily in my mouth as a groan claws its way up my throat. It’s the taste of betrayal fused with pain.
Then, a moment later, two more senses creep in with my next inhale, dragging stale oxygen into my lungs.
Smell and hearing. I wince as they slam into me—an assault of cheap, overpowering cologne tangled with the sharp sting of medication. Muffled voices seep into my ears, their tones so grating they scrape across my mind like a fork dragged over an empty plate.
Slowly, cautiously, I crack my eyes open. I squint hard, turning my face away as artificial light spears directly into them, its brightness adding to the swell of overwhelm crashing through me.
With more care, I try again. Blissful numbness keeps my body sunk in stillness, but my consciousness is clawing its way upward, whispering warnings that pile up, overlapping, insistent.
Something is wrong.
I blink, trying to clear the blur clinging to the edges of my vision. A chill ripples through me when a shadow drags itself into shape. A man. Leaning in, studying me.
“She’s awake,” he murmurs.
Whatever I’m lying on shudders, and so does my body. Only then do I register the vibration beneath me, the soft hum of an engine. I’m in a moving vehicle.
A heavy exhale comes from the opposite side. “You think we should give her another dose?”
Panic cracks through the numbness like lightning through glass. I flex my fingers, my feet, testing what parts of me I still command, gathering whatever scraps of control I can.
“I think it’s fine,” someone replies. “We’re almost there. We need her awake.”
Memory fragments begin crawling back, disjointed at first, then stitching themselves into shape. Flashes hit me—my files scattered across a table, a map with a red pin stabbed through my photo, Dante’s terrified eyes.
The recollection hits hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and a sob claws up my throat, nearly tearing free. A single tear escapes, slipping past my lashes as my lip trembles uncontrollably.
Like the flickering lights in that strobe-light room we visited, the images blink in and out. Then, anger surges through the cracks.
This is his fault. All of it. He ruined everything, and now I’m paying for it.
I’m in a car with people who kidnapped me, and I don’t know who the fuck they are. The Order? Dante’s enemies? His betrayers? My mind leaps to what he said—that someone has turned against him. Is he even looking for me?
The last thought sparks another memory, one that makes me flinch.
I stabbed him. Even if he wants to find me, he can’t.
Heat rises slowly through my veins, licking up my throat until it forces out another quiet, furious sob.
Fuck him. I’ll get out of this myself. I always do. I’ve survived worse. I just need a plan, and I need it now.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, blurring the world for a heartbeat. I blink them away, irritated at myself. Anger burns through me in violent waves, yet beneath it, the hollow in my chest yawns wider—a silent void that whistles with a pain growing sharper by the second.
But pain has always been my ally. I was shaped in it, raised inside it. Without it, I wouldn’t be what I am. I just need time to rearrange it, to mold it back into something useful. Something strong enough to hold me upright again.
“Goddamn, I can’t believe we have her,” one of the men says, a dry, disbelieving laugh scraping out of him. “It’s a fucking Christmas miracle.”
A muscle jumps beneath my eye. The anger coils, spiraling into something colder, more precise. They talk about me like I’m some rare toy they could never win—limited stock, impossible prize—and now I’m finally theirs.
But their words also remind me of the truth beneath their idiocy. I’m not just anyone. I’m The Order’s greatest assassin, their most valuable asset, their masterpiece of blood and control. I never treated it like a job; I lived it like a religion.
A spark flickers in my mind, cutting through the helplessness like a blade through fabric. I lick my dry lips and shift slightly in place, just enough to draw their eyes. As expected, they snap their attention to me instantly, puppets tugged by invisible strings.
My gaze drifts lazily between them, and I exaggerate the sluggishness in my movements, feigning a level of sedation that isn’t quite real.
Now that they’re close enough, their features come into clarity.
Both in their forties, stubble scattered across their jaws, military cuts, rough skin.
One with hair black as soot, the other a ginger whose freckles vanish beneath the dim light.
Their eyes gleam with excitement, like this is the highlight of their pathetic careers.
They wear black uniforms with Glocks that sit tucked in their waistbands.
“W-water,” I murmur, pushing myself onto my elbows with effort, letting my arms tremble just enough. They go rigid, but I keep still. “Please…”
They exchange a look—debating, doubting, deciding whether to oblige me or tell me to rot. The plan is already solidifying in my mind, hardening like stone.
The ginger one—closest to me—stands, and his partner shoots him a glare sharp with panic. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses. “Did you forget what they said about her?”
I wonder what exactly they’ve been told.
The black-haired man narrows his eyes at me, suspicion tightening his face. I answer with a feeble grimace, letting my expression crumble into something fragile and pitiful.
“I ‘member,” the ginger mutters, stepping toward the back of the van. He pulls out a fresh bottle of water and twists the cap. “But we can’t torture her like that. One sip won’t hurt.”
He crosses the van and drops onto the bench beside me, his weight dipping the metal frame. He holds out the bottle, and I push myself upright, letting my movements be shaky but steadying inwardly.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice carrying the faintest tremble of a smile. My fingers curl around the bottle as I raise it to my lips and take a long, greedy swallow. The cold water floods my tongue, slides down my throat, and ignites something fierce and alive inside me once more.
My mind snaps into clarity, the fog thinning.
I drag the bottle from my mouth, wetting my lips.
He reaches out, wordlessly asking for it.
I hand it to him, then, in the same motion, snap it upward, pressing the plastic hard between my palms. Water bursts from the spout in a sharp stream, shooting straight into his eye.
He screams, clutching his face, and I’m already moving on pure instinct. My hand dives for his waistband, fingers closing around the Glock. I rip it free and fire at his partner before he can react.
The gunshot explodes through the van, rattling the metal walls. I swing the weapon back toward the ginger, but even blinded, he lunges at me. The impact knocks the gun from my grip, and I hiss, driving my knee hard into his groin as his arms reach for me.
“Fucking cunt!” he chokes, folding over. I move faster—my hands find his belt buckle, unfastening it with a swift tug and tearing it free.
My elbow slams into his nose with a wet crack. I shift behind him, climbing up his back like a shadow. Looping the belt around his throat, I pull, my arms locked tight around him. His grunt vibrates through me as his hands fly up, one of them slapping across my cheek.
The sting only fuels me.
I haul back on the belt with both hands, tightening the leather until I feel his pulse hammering against the pressure. Heat radiates off him, adrenaline pumping through him in frantic waves as he fights to stay upright, and a small smile splits my face.
I don’t need a man to save me, I never have.
I save myself.
His struggles falter, each movement turning sluggish and desperate.
His heartbeat skips erratically, faltering like a dying drum.
Breath hitches, shallow and uneven, before fading into nothing.
At last, his body crumples beneath me, the life seeping out in a slow, relentless, almost hypnotic unravel.
The instant his body goes limp, the van lurches violently, slamming to a halt.
My forehead nearly smashes into the floor as I jolt forward.
Clutching the belt, I lift my head, sweat-matted strands clinging to my face.
Through the tangled hair, I catch sight of the driver twisting in his seat, the barrel of his gun trained squarely on me.
A shot detonates.
I flinch, body seizing, waiting for darkness to swallow me—waiting for the walls to bleed into black, for the floor to crack open into purgatory.
But nothing shifts. The world stays exactly as it is.
It takes me a moment to realize that the driver is slumped sideways in his seat. Motionless.
I release the belt, letting the limp body beneath me fall. Rising slowly, I freeze when the van door yanks open. Instinct overrides thought as I dive for the fallen Glock, snatching it off the floor and leveling it at the opening.
The moment he peers inside the van, our eyes meet—and in that instant, all logic shatters, leaving only raw, unfiltered emotion.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have all the time in the world,” Cane says, his gaze pinning me in place. “Would you mind coming out so we can move our asses? Their people will be here any second.”
I move before I even register the choice, pushing through the last remnants of fog clinging to my bones. Stepping over the bodies, I climb out of the van.
The night air crashes against me—cold, biting, thick with the remnants of rain. The storm has dwindled to a thin drizzle, yet every inhale carries the sharp tang of thunder.
I don’t think. I lunge, colliding with him, arms wrapping around him so fiercely it teeters on desperation.
“You motherfucker,” I breathe into his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me. “I thought you were dead.”