Chapter 12
IRIS
The glass door to the balcony is closed.
I watch the handle. It’s a brushed steel lever. A vertical line in the darkness, waiting. On the other side of the glass, the balcony is empty.
I’m alone in the glass box.
Inside the room, the silence is physical.
It presses against my eardrums, filling the space where violence exploded.
My skin still burns from the impact against the wall.
I touch my swollen lips. My wrist still pulses with the phantom pressure of his fingers, the iron grip that pinned me to the paneling.
You have a lot of fire for a pawn.
The adrenaline leaves a sickly, bruised feeling in its wake. This goes beyond fear. I know fear. I’ve lived with fear for three days. This is something else. This is shame.
For a second—one terrifying, insanity-inducing second—I wanted him to kiss me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a wave of nausea rolling over me.
What is wrong with you? I scream internally. He’s a killer. He kidnapped you and threatened to blackmail your father.
And you’re standing here trembling because he pressed his hips against yours?
It’s a trauma bond. A survival instinct wired wrong. The mind clinging to the only solid thing in a dissolving world. It’s weakness. And I can’t afford to be weak.
I open my eyes and look at the balcony door and the main door leading to the elevator. I need to find a way out.
Cassian is meticulous. He’s a machine. But before he left for the basement, he stood out there in the rain. When he came back inside, his hands were shaking.
I creep toward the glass and reach for the brushed steel lever. I turn it, but it doesn’t budge. The magnetic lock is engaged.
Cassian doesn’t make mistakes.
But neither do I.
I turn back to the room, my eyes sweeping the dark slate floor until they land on the shattered crystal decanter. I drop to my knees, ignoring the sharp sting as a fragment bites into my shin, and grab a long, razor-thin shard of the heavy crystal.
I run back to the door. Pulling the oversized sleeve of Cassian’s shirt down over my hand to protect my palm, I wedge the glass shard into the millimeter of space between the heavy pane and the frame. I slide it upward, hunting for the magnetic catch.
Snap.
The crystal shatters inside the thick cotton sleeve, leaving my skin untouched, but the mechanical override trips with a heavy, metallic clunk.
The lock is severed. This is my opening. My one chance to escape before I’m shuffled to another luxury cell.
I push the glass open an inch. The wind hisses through the gap.
I look down at my bare legs and the thin cotton shirt. I won’t survive the woods like this.
I pull a heavy canvas jacket from the open closet, zipping it to my chin. I spot a pair of men’s running shoes by the hallway entrance and shove my feet inside. They swallow my ankles, but I lace them tight, doubling the knots so they don't slip off my heels.
I widen the gap in the sliding glass door and step out onto the balcony, pulling the heavy pane shut behind me to seal the room.
The wind hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. The freezing rain instantly begins to soak through the heavy canvas jacket.
I creep to the edge of the terrace and look over the railing. The drop to the grounds is at least forty feet. Beyond the stone wall, the cliff plummets another three hundred feet into the churning black ocean.
Go back, my brain screams. Go back inside. It’s warm. It’s safe.
No. Cassian is the danger. He said the men at the gate want to use me to break him. He’s lying. He has to be. My father loves me. He’s sending a rescue team. I have to get to the road.
I scan the perimeter of the balcony. Tucked into the far corner, recessed into the stone to hide it from the ocean winds, is a narrow, grated iron staircase zigzagging into the dark.
I scramble over to it.
I take one step down. The oversized sneakers catch on the iron lip of the grate. I pitch forward, barely catching the wet railing as my feet slide out from under me.
The shoes are a death trap. I can’t climb in them.
I kick the sneakers off. They tumble down the iron stairs, clattering into the darkness.
I grip the freezing iron railing and start down barefoot.
The descent is a nightmare. The grated iron bites into the soles of my feet, cold and sharp. The wind batters me, whipping my hair into my eyes, trying to pry my frozen fingers off the handrail.
Every step is slippery, requiring agonizing focus and strength.
My thighs burn. My hands go numb. The rough stone of the exterior wall scrapes my shoulder as the wind pushes me against it, tearing the shirt and leaving a hot, stinging line of broken skin.
I keep moving.
One step. Two step.
Click.
A sharp, mechanical sound vibrates through the rain. A floodlight snaps on in the grounds below, sweeping the lawn. I freeze, pressing my body flat against the iron stairs, praying the shadows hide me.
The perimeter sensors are active.
I force myself to move faster under the cover of darkness. Every second counts. Cassian could return to the tower at any moment.
The last flight of stairs is slick with moss. I lose my footing on the bottom three steps and slide, landing hard in the mud of the hedges. The impact knocks the wind out of me. I roll, gasping, trying to suck air into startled lungs. The cold mud seeps into my clothes, heavy and unforgiving.
For a second, I lie still, staring up at the rain. My hip throbs. My feet are bleeding, and my shoulder burns.
But I’m alive. And I’m on the ground.
Free. Almost.
I scramble to my feet, caked in mud and soaked to the bone. I need to orient myself.
The grounds are pitch black. The security lights at the gatehouse to the south are dead, leaving the main entrance swallowed by the storm.
I turn north, keeping to the shadows of the perimeter wall.
Summoning every bit of strength I have, I run.
The mud sucks at my toes, cold and punishing with hidden twigs, but I force myself forward, ducking under the low branches of the trees.
The only sound is the wind howling and the distant roar of the ocean.
I hit the perimeter wall. It’s twelve feet of stone, topped with razor wire. Unclimbable.
I keep to the shadows, moving blindly along the wall until I hit steel.
It's a heavy service gate. The electronic keypad on the stone pillar glows red, locked down, but mounted on the inside is a mechanical crash bar.
I throw my entire body weight against the freezing metal, shoving the bar inward.
The latch clunks, and the gate groans open against the wind.
I peek through the gap.
The service road is empty. Beyond the gate, a narrow strip of asphalt cuts blindly into the woods. I break into a run.
I slip through the gap, and just like that, I’m free.
It almost doesn’t feel real.
But there isn’t time to relish in the victory.
I sprint down the center of the road without a clue of where I’m going, but away. Away from the tower. Away from the man with the dark eyes and the bruised knuckles.
I run until my lungs burn. Until my legs feel like lead. I give it my all to put as much space as possible between my captor and me.
Headlights cut through the rain, coming up the road toward me. I freeze. The light blinds me, turning the rain into a curtain of diamonds. Is it them? The Syndicate? Or is it the police?
The vehicle slows. It’s a black SUV.
I squint through the rain. There are no flashing lights. No police markings. No license plate on the front bumper. Undercover? Private security?
Cassian’s warning suddenly echoes in my head. They aren't here to rescue a hostage.
Panic spikes in my chest. I scramble off the asphalt, diving into the dark woods to hide.
But the SUV rolls to a halt ten feet away. The headlights pivot, the high beams slicing through the trees and pinning me like a spotlight.
I push the terror down. I have nowhere to run.
“Police!” I scream, stumbling out of the trees toward the driver’s side, praying I'm right. “Help me! I’ve been kidnapped! Please!”
The window rolls down, and the interior light flicks on.
There are two men in the front seat. They’re wearing tactical gear—black vests, radios, earpieces. Soldiers or security.
The driver leans out. He’s a big man, thick-necked, with a buzz cut. A jagged white scar runs from his temple to his jaw, pulling his lip up into a permanent, cruel sneer.
He looks at me. He takes in the torn shirt, the mud, the terror, and he smiles.
“Help me!” I sob, grabbing the door handle. “I’m Iris Hale! My father is Judge Hale! Please!”
The man’s smile widens.
“Iris Hale,” he says, testing the weight of the name.
My knees almost give out. He believes me.
“Yes!” I cry. “He has me! He’s back there!”
“Calm down,” the driver says. His voice is rough, accented. “You’re safe now.”
He unlocks the door.
“Get in,” he says. “Your father sent us to find you.”
I yank the door open, but I don’t climb inside. I freeze with one hand on the frame, the rain soaking my back. Something in my brain—that animal instinct Cassian woke up—misfires.
The accent. It’s thick. Slavic.
Are you with Volkov? Cassian had asked.
I look at the man’s gear. There are no badges. No police insignia. No private security logo. Just black.
I look at his eyes. They aren’t worried. They aren’t relieved. They’re hungry. He looks at me the way a wolf looks at a rabbit that has run into its jaws.
“My father...” I stammer, taking a step back. “My father sent you?”
“That’s right,” the man says. His smile widens, showing gold-capped teeth. “He’s very worried. Get in the car.”
“Call him,” I say.
The man glances at the rearview mirror, his expression tightening. “We don’t have time for that, Miss Hale. We are in a hostile zone. The target is close.”
“Call him,” I insist, my voice trembling but rising. “Put him on the speaker. I want to hear his voice.”
The smile vanishes. The man’s hand drops from the steering wheel and moves to his lap.
“We need to leave now,” he says, his voice hard. “Before he comes for you.” He leans closer, the rain dripping from his buzz cut. “Get in the car, Iris.”
The tone has changed. It isn’t a rescue anymore. It’s an order.
“No.” I release the handle and stumble back. “You’re not with him. You’re with them.”
“I said get in the fucking car!”
The driver’s door flies open. A heavy boot hits the asphalt. The man steps out, rising to his full height. He’s huge, a wall of black tactical gear blocking the rain.
I scream and turn to run, but I’m too slow.
He closes the distance and grabs my arm. His grip is a vise, crushing the skin that Cassian already bruised. He yanks me back, swinging me around.
His other hand raises, holding a pistol. It has a long, cylindrical suppressor screwed onto the barrel. He jams the muzzle hard into my ribs.
“Scream again,” he hisses, “and I’ll spill your guts on the pavement.”
I freeze. The cold metal burns through the thin shirt.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Get in,” he snarls, shoving me toward the open rear door.
I stumble, looking back toward the house. Toward the tower.
Shit. I thought I was running toward freedom. Instead, I ran straight into the slaughter. My father didn’t send these men.
Then who did?
The soldier shoves me into the backseat. I fall against the leather. He yanks the seatbelt across me, clicking it tight, strapping me down like cargo.
He slams the door shut. The lock engages. Click.
I look out the window as the car begins to turn around. The estate sits high on the cliff, the dark silhouette of the Tower cutting into the night sky.
I left the only safe place in the world.
And now, I’m going to die.