Chapter 12 #2
"No. But it will make your father suffer." She smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. "That's all I've ever wanted, Dalla. To make him feel what I felt. To take something precious from him and watch him break."
"He'll come for me. He's probably already on his way."
"I'm counting on it." Her eyes gleam. "I don't just want to kill you.
I want him to watch. I want him to see his precious daughter die and know there's nothing he can do to stop it.
I want his face to be the last thing you see, and your face to be the thing that haunts him for the rest of his miserable life. "
She's insane.
Truly, genuinely insane.
Thirty years of hatred and trauma and violence have twisted her into something that barely resembles a human being.
And I'm tied to a chair with no way out.
"It doesn't have to be like this," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "What happened to you was terrible. Losing your mother, the foster system, all of it. But this—revenge, murder—it won't fix anything. It won't heal you."
"I don't want to be healed." She crouches in front of me again, the knife tracing idle patterns on my knee. Not cutting, not yet. Just reminding me it's there. "I want to watch the world burn. Starting with the man who lit the first match."
"Please. You don't have to do this."
"You're right. I don't have to." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a specimen in a jar. "But I want to. I've wanted to for thirty years. And nothing you say is going to change that."
She stands and walks toward the window, looking out at something I can't see.
The guards remain motionless at their posts, professional and silent.
I use the moment to take stock of my situation.
The ropes on my wrists are tight but not impossible—if I had time, I might be able to work them loose.
The chair I'm tied to is old, wooden, probably not very sturdy.
But even if I could break free, there are four armed men between me and any exit.
And then there's the baby.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
In the chaos of the kidnapping, the terror of waking up here, I almost forgot.
But now it comes rushing back—the positive test, the life growing inside me, the future I was going to tell RJ about tonight.
I can't just think about my own survival.
I have to think about the baby. Our baby.
My hand strains against the rope, instinctively trying to reach my stomach.
To protect. To comfort.
The movement doesn't go unnoticed.
"Uncomfortable?" Solveig asks without turning around. "The ropes too tight?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look pale." She turns, eyes narrowing. "Actually, you've looked pale since you woke up. And earlier, in the van—my men said you were sick."
"It's the chloroform. It doesn't agree with me."
"Maybe." She walks back toward me, slow and predatory. "Or maybe it's something else."
Before I can react, my stomach heaves.
The nausea that's been building since I woke up crests without warning, and I barely manage to turn my head before I'm vomiting onto the hardwood floor.
It goes on for what feels like forever—bile then dry heaves, my body rejecting everything while I'm helpless to do anything but ride it out.
When it finally stops, I'm shaking, tears streaming down my face, my throat raw and burning.
Solveig is watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Interesting," she says softly.
"It's the chloroform," I repeat.
But my voice is weak, unconvincing even to my own ears.
She crouches in front of me again, and this time the knife comes up to my face.
The flat of the blade presses against my cheek, cold and smooth.
"You know what I think?" she murmurs. "I think you're lying to me."
"I'm not—"
"Shh." The blade traces down my cheek, my jaw, my neck.
Not cutting. Not yet.
"I've spent thirty years learning to read people, Dalla. Learning to spot weaknesses. And right now, you're radiating fear that goes beyond just worrying about yourself."
The knife continues its path down my body.
Over my collarbone.
Along the neckline of my shirt.
"I think there's something you're not telling me," Solveig continues. "Something that scares you even more than dying."
The blade reaches my stomach.
She presses the point against my abdomen, just hard enough to dimple the fabric. My whole body goes rigid.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?" She tilts her head, a cruel smile playing at her lips. "I haven't done anything. Yet."
She increases the pressure, and I feel a sting as the knife pierces through my shirt and into the skin beneath.
Not deep. Just a scratch.
But enough to draw blood.
Enough to show me she's serious.
"I could gut you right here," she says conversationally.
"Open you up from navel to sternum. Watch you bleed out on this nice hardwood floor.
" The knife traces a line across my stomach, and I feel another scratch, another drop of blood.
"Would you like that? Would your father like to find you like that—slit open like a slaughtered pig? "
"Please stop." Tears are streaming down my face now. "Please, I'm—I'll tell you whatever you want to know, just please—"
"What is it?" Her eyes are bright with interest. "What are you hiding?"
I can't tell her.
If she knows about the baby, she'll use it.
She'll hurt the baby to hurt me, to hurt my father.
But if I don't tell her, she might kill us both anyway.
The knife presses harder. I feel blood running down my stomach, warm and wet.
"I'm pregnant," I gasp. "Please, I'm pregnant. I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt my baby."
Solveig goes very still.
For a long moment, she doesn't move, doesn't speak.
The knife is still pressed against my stomach, the tip still drawing blood.
But she's frozen, staring at me with an expression I can't decipher.
"Pregnant," she repeats.
"Yes. Please. I just found out this morning. Please don't—"
"Whose is it?" Her voice is sharp now. "The Irish boy? The bodyguard?"
"Yes. His. It's his."
She laughs. It's an ugly sound—brittle and breaking at the edges.
"Oh, this is perfect." She stands, pulling the knife away from my stomach but keeping it in her hand. "This is better than I ever imagined. Not just Runes' daughter—Runes' grandchild. A whole generation of his bloodline, wiped out in one day."
"Please. I'll do anything. I'll be your hostage, your leverage, whatever you want. Just let me keep this baby."
"You think you're in a position to negotiate?" She leans in close, her face inches from mine. "You don't have anything I want except your death. And now I know I'll be killing two for the price of one."
A sob tears from my throat.
I strain against the ropes, desperate, terrified.
I can't let her hurt the baby.
I can't.
I'll do anything, say anything, be anything—
"But not yet," Solveig says, straightening. "I still want your father to watch. I want him to know about the baby before I cut it out of you. I want him to see exactly what he's losing."
She turns and walks to the window again, looking out at the road.
"He'll be here soon," she says. "And then we can finally end this."
I'm crying now, deep wracking sobs that shake my whole body.
The cuts on my stomach are still bleeding, small wounds that sting and burn.
But the pain barely registers.
All I can think about is the baby. RJ's baby. Our baby.
I never even got to tell him.
What if I never get the chance?
What if he finds out from someone else—from a coroner, from a blood test, from the evidence left behind?
The thought is unbearable.
This should be our moment.
Our joy.
The beginning of our family.
Not this. Not here. Not like this.
"I hope he makes it interesting," Solveig muses. "Thirty years is a long time to wait for revenge. I'd hate for it to be over too quickly."
Time passes. I don't know how much—the grandfather clock isn't working, and I have no way to track the minutes.
They stretch and blur, each one feeling like an eternity.
Solveig doesn't speak again, just stands at the window, watching.
Waiting. Occasionally her fingers trace the handle of the knife, almost lovingly.
The guards remain at their posts, silent sentinels.
One of them shifts his weight, and the floorboard creaks beneath him.
Another checks his weapon, the click of the safety loud in the quiet room.
They're professionals.
They know what's coming.
The light outside changes, shifting as the sun moves across the sky.
The shadows in the room lengthen, creeping across the faded wallpaper like dark fingers reaching for me.
I work at my bindings as subtly as I can, small movements that I hope won't draw attention.
But my wrists are slick with sweat and maybe blood from where I've been straining against the rope.
Every movement sends pain shooting up my arms.
The skin is raw, maybe bleeding. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting free.
But the rope isn't loosening.
If anything, it feels tighter.
I think about RJ.
I picture him at the compound, realizing I'm gone.
Finding my bag. Finding the blood.
I imagine the look on his face—the fear, the rage, the determination.
He'll come for me. I know he will. Nothing will stop him.
Hold on, I tell myself. Hold on for the baby. Hold on for him. Just a little longer.
I think about my father.
About what Solveig said—that she wants him to watch.
That she wants his face to be the last thing I see.
Does he know yet? Is he on his way?
I think about my mother, and my heart clenches.
If I die here, she'll lose her daughter.
Her grandbaby. Everything.
No. I can't think like that. I won't give up.
A guard's radio crackles, shattering the silence.
"Multiple vehicles approaching from the south. Trucks and motorcycles. Looks like a full assault force."
My heart leaps. They're here. They found me.
Solveig turns from the window, her face lighting up with a terrible joy.
Not fear, not surprise—joy.
Like this is exactly what she wanted.
Like the assault force approaching isn't a threat but a gift.
"Perfect," she breathes. "They're here. Right on schedule."
She crosses the room to stand behind me, her movements fluid and unhurried.
I feel the cold press of the knife against my throat.
Not cutting. Not yet.
Just waiting. Just reminding me who has the power here.
"Get ready," she tells her men. "Remember—I want the president alive. Kill the rest. Every single one of them."
The guards check their weapons, moving into position with practiced efficiency.
Two of them take cover near the windows.
The other two flank the main entrance, their rifles raised and ready.
I hear sounds from outside now—engines rumbling, growing closer.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
Voices, sharp and urgent.
The click of guns being readied.
"He came for you," Solveig murmurs in my ear, her breath warm against my skin. "Just like I knew he would. Your father. Your lover. All of them, rushing into my trap like good little soldiers. They think they're going to save you."
Her free hand strokes my hair, gentle and wrong.
A mockery of comfort.
"But you and I know the truth, don't we, Dalla? We know how this ends. You're going to die in this room, with your father watching. And then I'm going to kill him too. And everyone else who gets in my way."
"You're insane," I whisper.
"Probably." She laughs softly. "Thirty years of planning will do that to a person. But at least I'll be satisfied. At least I'll have my justice."
Through the window, I see movement—dark shapes spreading out, taking positions.
The Raiders. My family. Coming for me.
And somewhere among them, RJ.
My RJ. Coming to save me.
"He'll kill you," I say, and despite everything, despite the knife at my throat and the blood on my stomach and the terror clawing at my chest, I believe it. "He won't let you hurt me. He'll burn this whole place down and everyone in it."
"He can try." Solveig presses the knife harder, and I feel a sting as the blade bites into my skin.
Not deep—not yet—but enough to draw blood.
Warm and wet, running down my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt. "But I've been planning this for thirty years. I've thought through every scenario, prepared for every possibility. And I'm not going to lose."
A window shatters somewhere in the house.
Gunfire erupts—close, deafening, the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons mixed with the deeper boom of shotguns.
The guards at the door open fire, shouting to each other, coordinating their defense.
It’s started.
Solveig's hand tightens in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing more of my throat to the knife.
I feel the blade press deeper, another line of fire, another trickle of blood.
"Now we wait," she says, her voice calm despite the chaos exploding around us. "Now we see who makes it through."
And all I can do is bleed and pray that the man I love gets to me in time.