Chapter 9 – Wren
I’d stared death in the face.
Nothing was scarier than that.
I thought, for sure, this was the day I’d die.
But God had other plans—and then bang. My jailer arrived in the nick of time and put a bullet in my attacker’s head. Four bullets to be precise. Damn!
This was last night, but even now, I was haunted by the sound of gunshots that echoed loudly in my head. I was so fear-stricken that I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak—all I did was scream the moment death came face-to-face with me.
They say, when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
That’s true. But what they don’t tell you is how fuckin’ horrible that experience is.
I lived it, I survived it, and I can tell you for free that I almost shit my pants.
That was the most terrified I’d ever been in my whole life.
I’d never seen a gun up close, let alone had the damn thing pointed at me. Fuck!
If my jailer had wasted just one more second, I would have been a goner by now—a fuckin’ first-class ticket to heaven. Or hell. Yeah, I’d rather not even think about it.
I thought I was brave until death came barging into my room and left me shaking like a leaf. I remember napping that cool evening, only to be woken up by the sound of rapid gunfire.
The mansion was invaded by gunmen. People were hurt, staff and guards alike. The household lost two men last night, four were in the ICU, while the others sustained minor injuries. No worker domestic staff was hurt—none that I knew of anyway.
But here’s the kicker: From what I gathered, no one else was attacked in their rooms the way that I was. None of the domestic staff faced off against the intruders.
Why only me? And how did the intruders know the exact room where I was? Was this planned? Fuck, was I the target?
No, no. This must be some sort of coincidence. Maybe my attacker didn’t know whose room that was. Perhaps, he just wandered in there, ready to kill whoever was inside. Right?
Uh-uh, girl, I think you’re in denial, said one of the voices in my head.
Which one was it this time, the voice of fear or that of courage? Or another voice entirely?
The voice continued, Remember earlier this morning, when you were walking down the hallway, you overheard a maid recounting what happened to her to her colleagues.
Shit. That was true.
The maid’s door was slightly open, and I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but what she was telling her colleagues caught my attention. She was seated on her bed, wiping her tears with a napkin as she told two other maids that one of the masked men had barged into her room.
According to her, he pointed his gun at her but then turned away shortly after. Even her colleagues were shocked, and they asked if she was sure that’s what really happened. The maid swore she was telling the truth.
“I swear…he just walked away,” she’d said amidst sobs.
First of all, why in heaven’s name was she still crying? And second, why did the masked man not shoot her? Not that I wished he had or anything—just curious. He walked away. Why?
But in my case, he didn’t only point his gun at me; he almost pulled the fuckin’ trigger.
Maybe it was a different assassin from the one in the maid’s room.
For sure, that was my voice of fear; I was positive.
The voice continued, Maybe the guy she met had a conscience, and that’s why he walked away, leaving her alive.
There’s that. And then there’s also the fact that she might not have been the target. Wren was, said another voice.
I got out of bed, wiping a palm over my face. Could I really have been the target? But why? Who’d want me dead? I was just a prisoner here, nothing more.
Given that my jailer was most probably a Mafia boss, the attack from last night could be tied to one of his many enemies. I mean, the man must’ve pissed off a lot of folks in his line of work. Maybe one of them got fed up and decided to take him out.
I refused to accept that I was targeted last night because it was easier to believe that one of my jailer’s enemies had come for him. Not me. If I were shot, I would’ve been collateral damage. It made more sense that way.
My fingers combed through my hair as I paced back and forth, trying to steady my uneven breaths. I couldn’t stop wondering how I got myself into such a mess, getting entangled with a man who attracted death and chaos like steel to a magnet.
That man saved your life, though, I was reminded.
True. He had. If it weren’t for him, that assassin would’ve shot me in cold blood. His heroic action now begged the question: Was he really my enemy? Was he the one that I should be worrying about?
I heaved a sigh, rubbed my eyes, and then headed out.
By now, the whole house had already been cleaned up—the blood, the bodies—except for the bullet holes in the walls.
Those were still there. I walked down the hallway, wondering where my jailer’s master bedroom was. I figured he’d be in there resting.
Last I checked, he was bleeding on his arm when he came barging in to save me last night. Not that his safety mattered to me. I just felt the need to at least thank him for his intervention.
A maid who’d just rounded a corner bumped into me by accident.
“Oh, my God!” she yelped, her palm flying to her chest, her eyes slamming shut.
The poor girl must still be traumatized by the attack; the terror simmering in her gaze said it all. She must have thought she’d collided with another armed assailant.
“Hey.” I gripped her shoulders, feeling her tremble beneath my hands. “It’s just me. It’s just me, okay?” My voice was sharp and clear enough to cut through her fear.
She stopped shaking, opened one eye, and the moment she realized who was holding her, she let her guard down. “Oh, Miss Wren.” A deep sigh of relief left her lips. “I’m sorry, I panicked,” she said, her voice thick with her Russian accent.
“It’s alright.” I straightened, watching her avoid my gaze—not out of spite, but rather, respect.
Strange. I was just a prisoner and no more important than she was.
Why the reverence I saw in her behavior: bowed head, lowered eyes, hands clasped in front of her like I was the lady of the house?
It unsettled me how she stood there, cold and submissive, like I had the power to decide whether she lived or died.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
With her chin still resting on her chest, she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, “Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? That wasn’t spooky at all.
I wasn’t her mistress; hell, I wasn’t even free myself.
“Your boss, where is he?” I added, ignoring her weird behavior.
“In his study.”
I had no idea where that was. And as though she read my mind, the maid pointed me in the right direction.
“Second door on your left,” she said.
“Alright. Thank you.”
She bent her knees slightly, then walked away without raising her head to meet my gaze.
What the hell just happened? I wondered, watching her leave my presence with hurried footsteps. Clearly, everyone in this mansion had issues—there was a lot of crazy going on here.
I picked up my pace and continued my journey until I reached my destination. The door was slightly ajar, and through the sliver of space inches from the frame, I saw him.
He was seated on a chair, stripped from the waist up, his torso covered in tattoos and scars.
A bottle of whiskey sat open on the table beside him, the harsh scent drifting faintly into the hallway.
At his feet was a bowl of pink-tinged water that rippled each time blood dripped from his wounded arm.
His eyes were focused on the deep cut he was stitching with a needle. His left arm was set on the table, while his right hand worked the curved needle through his torn flesh. No wince, no grunts, nothing to indicate that he was in pain.
The table was clustered with things that had no business being there—scissors, gauze rolls, and other surgical equipment. I scanned the inside, and he seemed to be alone.
Quietly, I pushed the door open, my footsteps almost making no sound against the floor as I walked inside. The scent of aged paper mingled with the faint traces of blood, and the sharp smell of whiskey filled the air.
A towering bookshelf dominated a corner of the room, and beside it was a flat screen TV playing the CCTV footage of the entire house.
I recognized my room in one of the frames—and it should disturb me to know that my every move was being watched.
But after the incident last night, I thought maybe it was for the best.
He was so engrossed in his surgical work that he didn’t hear me come in. Or he did and decided to ignore me.
I cleared my throat conspicuously. “Hey.”
He didn’t look at me; he just continued stitching his arm like I wasn’t standing right there.
My eyes kept darting to his bare torso—a frame impossible to ignore.
His broad shoulders and chiseled abs caught my attention, every line of him straining against the silent brutality of the movement.
His tough skin glistened in the soft light, a bead of sweat trickling down his body, tracing the ridges of his abs.
I swallowed, shifting my gaze to the bookshelf, then the CCTV footage. My eyes roamed the space, anywhere but his body. At this point, I was confused, wasn’t sure what to do, and the only thing my brain could think of was how to help him finish up.
His body was hot enough to distract me. Was that really a good idea? Well, it beat standing there doing nothing.
I spotted a wooden chair somehow to my right, and without thinking twice, I dragged it toward him, its legs scraping the floor noisily. I set the chair before him and sat down, reaching out to take the needle from his hand.
I felt a strange chill run down my spine when my skin brushed against his. Our eyes locked in a split second, stirring a flutter in my chest. I blinked and looked away, adjusting in my chair as I took over stitching him up.
He stared at me in silence. And although his gaze and that ridiculously attractive body of his were distracting as fuck, I still managed to keep my cool.
The cut was deeper than I thought, but it wasn’t something that I couldn’t handle. Based on my observations, he’d already cleaned up the wound and disinfected it. All I had to do was finish stitching him up.
“I take it this isn’t your first rodeo,” I said, attempting to fill the awkward silence, fingers working their magic on his arm.
No response.
I weaved the needle and thread through his flesh with expert precision.
“This isn’t my first rodeo either,” I continued, despite being ignored.
“I used to stitch my father up all the time.” A scoff fell off my lips.
“The old man used to get in a lot of fights back in the day. Mom got tired of nursing his wounds every now and then. That’s when I stepped in. ”
He still didn’t say a word. But his gaze never left my face.
I lifted my head and faced him. “How are you so calm right now? My father was a strong man, and even he used to wince and grunt when I patched him up.”
Still no response.
I broke eye contact and resumed working on his arm. That’s when he answered, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
“Pain and I came to an agreement a long time ago.”
I wasn’t expecting that. But okay—even though I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or disturbed.
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
He hesitated. “In my world, it is.”
I finished up on his arm in no time, securing the new bandage with a safety pin. “And…done.”
He glanced at it, eyes squinting slightly as though he was scrutinizing the job. A moment later, he rose to his feet and then walked over to the swivel chair behind his desk.
No, thank you. Nothing of the sort.
Why am I not surprised?
“You’re welcome,” I said softly, turning in his direction, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
He slipped into a crisp white shirt, fingers fastening his buttons.
I got up and watched him in silence, my eyes catching the outline of his body beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you,” I said, my voice low but laced with genuine gratitude.
He glanced at me while tucking the hem of his shirt into his pants. “What for?”
“You saved my life last night,” I answered. Then, I lowered my head to add under my breath, “Even though it was only in danger because of you.”
“What?” His brows furrowed slightly with a faint scowl on his face.
“Hmm?” I raised my head, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t say anything.”
I watched something that resembled a smile flash at the corners of his lips. It was almost imperceptible. But I caught it.
“I protect what’s mine,” he said, his expression darkening ever so slightly.
I didn’t like the sound of that because now I wasn’t sure what I was to him anymore: prisoner, leverage. Or something else entirely.
He locked eyes with me, and neither of us said a word for a short while. Until I broke the silence.
I cleared my throat. “This might come off as cringe or weird, but uh…what’s your name?”
Yep. Definitely weird. It sounded less creepy in my head, though.
He looked directly at me but didn’t answer, didn’t change his expression, or even move a muscle.
Great. I felt so stupid.
“You know what?” I raised my hands defensively. “Forget I asked that.”
It wasn’t until I turned around to leave that he answered.
“Valarian.”
I paused in my tracks but didn’t look back.
“Valarian Tarasov.”
My lips curled into a small smile, and with that, I walked out of his study feeling a lot better than when I came. I wouldn’t say that I trusted him, but I wouldn’t say he was my enemy either. There was something broken about him today. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I could sense it.
As twisted and nearly one-sided as it was, this turned out to be the first meaningful conversation we've had since I arrived. Today, beneath that flat expression, I caught a glimpse of a man. Not a monster. A human being. Broken.
When I returned to my room, I didn’t lock the door behind me. I left it slightly ajar, like the line between us: thin, fragile, uncertain.
Throughout the rest of the day, Valerian lived rent-free in my head, and I couldn’t stop myself from replaying our little time together. More than once, I caught myself smiling at the thought of him and how insanely attractive his body was.
That was how I knew this was the beginning of a new kind of trouble. One that I wasn’t ready for.