8. Isabel
Isabel
The metallic tang of blood still fills my nostrils, sharp and acrid, blurring my mind. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here after watching a man die right next to me. It’s long enough to replay the incident so many times it feels like a loop I can’t break.
My throat burns, raw from the scream that ripped from my lungs as the bullet tore through the neck of the motherfucker who clocked me in the parking garage.
The shock of it knocked me backward just before he hit the bed inches from me, blood bubbling from the wound as it soaked the new comforter, the metallic scent reminding me of the first time I learned what death smelled like.
It was a few months into my surgical rotation. The procedure was supposed to be routine. It was anything but. There’s always a risk when you put someone under, and this patient had an undiagnosed heart condition and an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.
An hour in, everything went tits up.
I lost my first patient on my table.
Death has a scent, and it’s one I’ll never forget—no matter how much I wish I could.
The sharp, pungent scent of smelling salts jolts me upright. A movement I instantly regret. The sudden shift sends the room spinning, nausea roiling through me as my vision blurs and my stomach revolts.
I gag.
A trash can is shoved in front of me, and I grab the cold metal, barely making it in time before I vomit.
When it passes, I sit there for a minute, trying to steady myself before I lift my head and survey the unfamiliar room.
The chilling silence is broken only by the faint tick of a clock I don’t recognize.
I’ve been moved.
Unlike the room I was in, this one’s been updated.
The walls are painted a deep, nearly black crimson, a shade that’s hard to determine in the faint light. It’s offset by dark cherry wood.
A fire crackles in front of me. Its glow warms the room as I lie on a soft leather couch. The flames keeping the darkness at bay.
A shadowy figure looms, his form indistinct in the dim light as he extends a hand, offering a bottle of ice-cold water.
“Drink slowly.”
The dizziness returns the moment I nod, instantly regretting it. Once it passes, I ask, “What do you want from me?”
The shadowy figure backs away and settles into the tall leather chair opposite me. With a weary sigh, he reaches for his glass. The soft click of ice breaking the silence as he takes a sip.
“Are you sure you want to know?” He swirls his glass, watching the ice instead of me. “Will this finally make you see reason and accept the truth I know? A truth others have kept from you?”
Do I? I’m not sure.
He’s a stranger, and I don’t trust him or his motives. What makes him so sure he understands anything about my life? How the hell does a brief encounter with me in a lift convince him I’m his long-lost daughter?
I have no reason to believe him.
Will I tell him that? Hell no.
I’ll tell him what he wants to hear, even if it’s a lie. He needs to believe I’m willing to sit here and listen with an open mind. The need for answers gnaws at me, pushing me to play his game—for now.
But I refuse to forget that he took me against my will.
“I’ll listen.” I unscrew the cap, hear the soft click before taking a sip. The cool water soothes my parched mouth, washing away the bitter taste left behind from my upset stomach. “Why do you believe you’re my father?”
His claim, while shocking, doesn’t hit me as hard as it should.
I’m skeptical he’ll tell me the truth, but I want to know why he believes I’m his daughter.
Sitting here and listening to him shed light on the past won’t be easy, but maybe it will help give me answers to questions I’ve been asking myself for a while now.
“First, let me introduce myself.” Extending his hand, he holds it out for me to take. “My name is Rurik.”
I lean in just enough to accept it, giving him a quick shake before pulling away. “Just Rurik, no last name?”
“I have one, obviously.” Leaning back, he reaches for the canter beside him and refills his glass. “We can save that minor detail for later.”
An icy dread grips me; the question forming in my mind threatens to unleash a storm I can’t control.
“Did you kill my grandfather?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at me with cold, dark eyes while the fire crackles, breaking through the unease hanging between us.
I refuse to make this easy for him. He brought me here. I expect him to do most of the talking. If he wants me to trust him, then he needs to confirm what I already know.
“I could lie, tell you no.” The lines around his eyes grow deeper. “But that does me no good, you already know the truth.”
After a slow sip, he speaks, showing no remorse. “I did.”
Hot tears trickle down my face, muddying my vision as I choke out, “Why?”
“Because he left me no choice.”
A bitter scoff escapes me. “There’s always a choice. You didn’t have to kill him. So why did you?”
The slight lift of his left shoulder pisses me off, and what he says next doesn’t help.
“Maybe you’re right. I could’ve let him live, but honestly, I didn’t want to.
He annoyed me. Acting like he was the one in charge, making demands while refusing to give me what I wanted. I don’t like being told no.”
Now it’s my turn to just stare, trying to keep my cool, but it’s not easy. And honestly, why should I? Everything he’s said and done should piss me off, giving me every right to be angry. So I don’t hold back.
“That’s your reason for killing him? Because you don’t like being told no?”
He shrugs again, and I lose my ever-loving mind.
“Well, fuck you! You can go straight to hell!”
Recapping my water bottle, I stand a little faster than I should have. A dizzy spell hits hard, but I don’t care. I’m beyond pissed at this point.
“What you have to say, I’m no longer interested in hearing. If you and my mother were once involved, I now understand why she dumped you and married someone else.”
“Sit down!” The heavy timbre of his voice echoes off the walls.
That tone might work on others. Not me.
Newsflash, you cockwomble, I’m not just anyone. I don’t appreciate it, and I’m not about to let it intimidate me into bowing to his will.
“Fuck you!” My voice rings out, matching his volume and intensity. “I will not sit down! Take me back to my room!”
Rising, he seizes my arm, his fingers biting into my flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.
But when he speaks, his voice is eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll take you back to your room.”
We move.
He probably used to his long legs being an advantage when he’s dragging women with shorter ones wherever the hell he wants them. But I’m not short.
This is where my height works in my favor. It’s not easy, but I keep up. Even though I’m practically jogging, the burn in my legs builds as we race up the stairs to the second floor.
The stairs are shit. The third step from the top wobbles, enough to trip Rurik up. The flash of irritation that crosses his face is brief—but satisfying.
At the top, we head down the musty hallway where Marvin waits in the doorway. He’s shaking his head as he peers into the room.
The sound of our feet coming down the hall catches his attention, and he turns.
Wow!
Marvin’s face is a wreck. A swollen black eye and a split lip, the aftermath of a brutal punch. Serves him right. Wish I knew who to thank.
Marvin takes a step back, his throat catching before he clears it with a small, nervous cough. “We’re still cleaning up. Didn’t expect you back so quickly.”
“Don’t care. Leave.”
“But—”
“Fucking leave! Everyone,” Rurik shouts, and two men dressed in black rush out of the room, latex gloves slick and dark.
They’ve been cleaning. Or trying to. But they are nowhere near done.
A body still lies on the bed where I remember it falling. Another is sprawled across the floor, staring up at the ceiling—at least, half of his face is. The other half is splattered across the wall and floor.
The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, an unpleasant perfume that has me gagging. I break free from Rurik’s grip and sprint to the bathroom, nausea hitting fast and hard.
I collapse over the open toilet, gripping the white seat as I violently empty what little water I drank moments earlier. A sour, acidic taste scorches my throat.
A door slams.
The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot, and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding as panic surges. I stumble out of the bathroom and drop to my knees in front of the door, fists crashing against the solid wood.
“Open the damn door!” I yell at the arsehole who locked me in here to make a point.
He doesn’t, and I don’t stop.
“You really are a bloody bastard, you know that?” The sight in the bedroom makes me gag a second time, my voice weakening with each word. “Fuck you!! Fuck you! Fuck you.”
“Keep that up and you’ll be spending the night in there.” Anger pours from his voice like venom. “You wanted to return to your room. Said you were done.”
My jaw clenches, fists tightening as his words sink in. I swallow the bitter response clawing its way up my throat and say nothing.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe time alone with Tank and Urick will do you some good.
Give you a chance to reflect on why crossing me isn’t something you want to do.
” He keeps his voice low. “You may be my daughter, but that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate disrespect.
I may not kill you, but I will make your life a living hell. ”
His voice trails off, replaced by the slow, rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps retreating down the hall.
With a grunt, I roll off my knees and onto my arse, the impact jarring as I lean my back against the wall and close my eyes.
The idea of sharing DNA with him fills me with horror.
He has to be wrong.
I inhale through my mouth and not my nose, hoping that dulls the stench clinging to the air. It doesn’t.
Now it coats my tongue, thick and foul, and I want to scream—but I don’t. It’ll only make my head pound harder, giving Rurik exactly what he wants.