Chapter Fourteen
Ava
Voices murmuring from outside woke me as I shift onto my stomach. My eyes are so heavy but the low chatter is poking me awake. My body is tense from the disruption of the only peace I have left. Sleep.
I rub my eyes, stretching my legs and arms from the ache of change. I keep my eyes closed thinking of Roman protecting me. Though he may not outwardly say it, I know he did. I don’t know why he would though. His smug face and tone telling me I can only stay here and only in this room makes me angry.
I flip to my back with a groan. As much as he is just like them all, I can’t help but think about him. I graze my hand over my breasts, circling my nipple as it hardens under my shirt. He is such an asshole, but he could have given me up tonight. I grip my neck at the thought of his warm hand wrapping around it as he squeezed the breath from me. I can’t believe myself for giving into him and his eyes, dark like a deadly sea, or demon.
Whichever he was, I wanted it.
I spread my legs slowly as my hand treads lightly to my lower abdomen and to my clit. I stop from an abrupt sound of a car starting, and its shitty music blaring.
I pull back the comforter from me and walk to the window. I peer into the darkness to see if I could spot anyone, but the rumble of the car and music went quiet. My breath is heavy with sinking anticipation, like someone is watching me.
I tug at my shirt to stretch it over my thighs a little more. If anything, he didn’t check my bag. I walk to the bag and shuffle past the clothes and journal to the knife. I hold it firm in my fist as I stare at the black metal.
I wrap the garter with a silver buckle around my thigh and fasten it to the last hole. My thigh presses slightly over the strap because It barely fit around, but I'm glad I didn't have to create another hole for it. I chuckle slightly in awe, I am used to pants and shorts always being tight around my thighs. At this point in my life it was normal for me to alter clothes and accessories when I needed to.
Creeping over to the door, as stealthy as I could, I turned the knob.
That fucker locked me in.
I scrunch my face, walking to the bag again. Tossing the clothes behind me, I search for my wallet, trying to not freak the fuck out about being locked in again. Sweat gathers on my forehead as the walls start to feel like they are closing in. I reach the bottom of the bag for my wallet and flip it open. Yanking my library card out, I lean back on my heels, rocking myself up.
“ Well, look at that you taught me something, ” I say under my breath as I reach the door.
When I was around eight years old my dad took me trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. The million-dollar homes always had buckets of big candy bars but that's not why he was excited. He would say before we headed out in our mummy disguises they all go to parties and are never home. We would walk up long drives while he taught me how to slide cards in the doors to unlock them. We would slip in, stealing what we could fit in our pillowcases and instead of counting candy by the end of the night, we were counting jewels and cash.
I slip the card between the frame and door handle, jiggling the knob until I hear the click as the door slightly opens.
Like magic .
The stale air reminds me of old doctor offices, you know the ones with untouched hallways and closets. I adjust my eyes to the low lights, venturing down the hallway. I lift my shirt over the hilt of the knife and flutter my eyes into the femme fatale. Shifting my outer self into the need to be strong.
I trace my fingers up and down the walls, taunting the space in front of me with every step. The texture of the dark-red wallpaper skims my fingertips as I softly press into the floral pattern. The lightbulbs mounted on the walls flicker dimly, almost unnoticeable to the eye. The waiver of electricity is like a flash of my last hope, illuminating my victory. The white carpet is soft under my bare feet as I near an elbow in the hall.
Two brown, massive double-doors invite me to investigate its pearlescent handles. I press my ear to the door and hear the tick of a grandfather clock, as the pendulum swings. I press the handle down and push the doors open. I sneak past the frame, and with both hands close the door quietly behind me.
Holy shit.
My jaw drops with astonishment. Three arched, black framed windows encase the left wall of the gigantic space with vaulted ceilings. The moon hangs low as it beams through the tangle of branches of the trees outside, casting onto the black bookshelves, which were in multiple rows filling the room. Large glass terrariums are in the spaces between them as dry delicate flowers lay on the top of the tiny domed worlds, limp and fragile. I watch my feet as I focus on the worn swirls of burgundy and gold carpet, leading my steps.
The smell of aged moss and fragile pages circle around me. I scour over the wooden edge of the first bookcase, tracing my finger over the spines. If I can find any type of information, that even hints to any kind of operation, I feel like a secret library is where it would be. The walls are a pale yellow with tiny baby’s breath flowers and what looks like white tulips, but yellow slightly, like they collected the stale air.
A photo album sticking out at the end of the second bookcase catches my endeavor. As I am flipping through the book, I stop at old pictures of Stepan and Roman. The normal Christmas morning, holding up pristine wrapped gifts. The regular family photos taken in front of the bay with little scribbles of the year. Though, the back section of the book is different from the innocent memories.
Pages of names with occupations next to them, including the Volokhovs, line with black ink. I scan until I reach my parents, and mine that is beside it.
Assassins- working class. Ava- daughter.
I shut the book, angry that my name is in there. This is the evidence I need. Tucking the album under my arm, I start for the door. The creaking of the floor makes me stop mid step as shadows in my peripherals play tricks on me. I look around the massive space to find a threat, discovering nothing but the moonlight. The leaves dance in the wind, casting blobs of darkness across my pale skin.
The last bookcase was further in the corner, and I strain to read the words on the spines but I can’t make them out.
Son of a bitch, I can’t see anything. I didn’t bring my glasses.
The squeak from the door shutting startles me and I tuck myself beside the case to hide. I squat and grab the handle of the blade, ready to pull. The hilt is cold against my palm but my sweat starts to form between the slick metal and my flesh. Even though I have a blade it doesn’t mean I have the guts to use it. I hug the edge of the bookcase stretching myself outward slightly, to determine the best way to the exit.
A hot breath breezes my ear sending tingles down my arms, “Hello, Cottontail,” Roman grumbles.
My eyes stay fixated on the doors as I use every bit of might I have to run. I pump my fists with the knife in one hand and album under the other, until I reach them.
Fuck. What is with him locking the damn doors.