Chapter 10
Sabine
The room was too large to be comfortable.
The only movement in the bedroom was the faint sway of the curtains when the heat clicked on.
The lamplight on the nightstand spread a warm glow over the bedspread, catching faint gold threads in the fabric.
My suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed, half-unpacked, a reminder that I wasn’t here by choice.
I leaned back against the pillows, book open in my lap.
The nightgown I’d found in my bag skimmed mid-thigh, the hem brushing lightly when I shifted my legs.
It was soft from years of washing, almost weightless, the kind of comfort I hadn’t expected to find here.
I wished I’d thought to grab my robe, but it’s not like I had time to think through my packing.
My injured ankle rested on a pillow, angled so the swelling wouldn’t build.
The bandage pulled tight over my skin with each faint throb.
It was more irritating than painful now, but enough to remind me that I wasn’t walking anywhere fast. I flexed my toes once, testing, and let them relax again when the ache sharpened.
The worst part wasn’t the ache. It was the enforced stillness.
I wasn’t built for this, for lying still while someone else decided what was safe and what wasn’t.
Every hour I spent in that bed felt stolen, work sliding out of reach while I sat here like a patient waiting for permission to live again.
Kara’s “rest” order rang in my head like a verdict, and I hated how easily I’d obeyed it.
Maybe that was what unsettled me most: not the ankle, not the women outside these walls, but the creeping realization that I was already falling into their rhythm instead of mine.
Time crawled by. It had to be nearly midnight.
I had been a night owl my whole life, and my routine was to use the silent night hours to go through research and write.
I was used to controlling my own space and time, to deciding when to sit still.
Here, the walls felt closer. Even with the bed this soft, the bedroom this warm and opulent, I couldn’t shake the sense of being contained.
It was too easy to imagine the locks on the doors downstairs, the gates beyond, the cameras watching the house and grounds.
I wondered if they were watching me right now.
I turned a page without reading it, the words blurring together. My eyes drifted to the window, its pale curtains and the dark beyond them. I adjusted my legs again, and told myself to focus on the book, but there was a restlessness sitting just under my ribs, impossible to ignore.
I set the book on the nightstand, the lamp’s light spilling over the cover. The urge to pee again had been nagging at me for a while, and ignoring it wasn’t going to make it go away. I guess that’s what I get for killing three beers over dinner.
As I maneuvered my careful way to the bathroom, I thought about the trail that had brought me here. The stack of sensitive documents Dom had slid across the table, and the weight of knowing they could dismantle the Bellante family’s hold piece by piece. I closed my eyes and remembered.
I hadn’t imagined that chasing the truth would end with me hidden away in a place like this, the marble sink and ornate mirror more suited to a boutique hotel than a safehouse. The contrast was jarring, a reminder that safety here came wrapped in both comfort and threat.
Comfort, threat, and a pack of intimidating women.
Then, with a wry twist of thought, I corrected the thought: a bunch of attractive intimidating women.
Kara with her commanding eyes that were always assessing the room.
Ellie, whose easy smile didn’t quite hide the sharpness beneath.
Cam, solid as stone with a crooked smile.
And Alex… maybe I’d get lucky and she would be unattractive, or awful, or something to offset her team.
I pressed my palms to the edge of the sink, letting the cool porcelain steady me. My dating life didn’t exactly give me much ground to stand on when it came to sizing up potential partners anyway. Work had always been easier to focus on than the messy unpredictability of people.
Still, here I was, thinking about the way they looked, the way they moved.
I bent to cup my hands under the running tap, splashing cold water onto my face until the droplets slid down my neck.
Enough. This was not the time or place for that kind of thinking.
I straightened, meeting my eyes again in the mirror, and silently told myself to keep it together.
The woman in the glass barely looked like me.
My hair was flattened on one side, my lashes smudged from a day that had felt three times as long as it really was.
The nightgown clung thin against my body, the kind of image I’d have laughed off as someone else’s fantasy.
For one beat too long, I looked like I belonged here, like I was someone’s kept secret, dressed down and waiting.
The image twisted my stomach. Not a reporter chasing down leads, not a woman who built her life on grit and deadlines, but someone softened, waiting for permission.
Waiting to be used. The kind of person women like them could tuck away and claim as theirs.
I gripped the porcelain harder, reminding myself that wasn’t who I was.
I turned from the sink, flicking off the light. The moment my weight shifted, the throb in my ankle made me pause, toes curling against the cool tile. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was sharp enough to remind me it wouldn’t let me forget about it for long.
The thought of propping my foot back up in bed and lying there, wide awake with my mind chasing itself in circles, felt worse than the ache. Sleep wasn’t coming. I needed more pain medicine, and I wasn’t at all interested in calling out for help like a damsel in distress.
I could manage the trip downstairs for ibuprofen. Slowly, carefully. I’d been walking on it a little already.
Thirty careful steps to the door, and my hand stayed on the knob longer than it should have.
For a second, I half-expected the latch not to give, for the lock to click back against me and prove that this room was my jail cell.
But the hinges gave with only a faint creak, and cooler air met my face as the door opened.
It smelled faintly of polish and woodsmoke, the hush of the house pressing in on all sides.
I pictured Kara, Ellie, any of them waiting on the other side with a look that said I wasn’t trusted.
No one was there. Just shadows stretching down the hall.
I forced myself forward, but each step carried the weight of unseen eyes.
Somewhere in this house, cameras watched every angle, every doorway, every inch of ground outside.
I told myself the lenses were for protection, but the thought of faceless watchers on the other end tightened my throat.
A floorboard creaked behind me, sharp in the stillness, and I spun so fast my ankle almost gave.
Empty. Just the old house exhaling. I pressed a palm to the wall and exhaled with it, pulse quick and stupid.
My toes sank into the pile of the thick carpet, catching on the fibers, every movement deliberate.
Shadows pooled in the corners where the light didn’t reach, and I caught myself staring too long into them, half-expecting to see someone step out.
My breath came quieter than usual, shallow so I could hear better, as if silence might warn me of being seen.
The absurdity stung: sneaking through the dark like I was the trespasser, not the one locked away here.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I paused.
The chandelier’s light caught only the lower treads; everything above the landing blurred into shadow.
The long fall made my stomach shift. I imagined the roll of my bad ankle, the jolt of my head against the runner, my body sprawled at the bottom before anyone came.
A cold rush crawled up my spine, pushing me back a step.
The safer choice would be to turn around, crawl back into bed, pretend I didn’t need this.
But the thought of lying there awake and helpless tightened my jaw.
One step at a time, Barrett. Don’t be dramatic.
I rested one hand on the banister, testing the idea of going down, and found myself leaning forward, already committed to trying.
One step. I hopped down, keeping all my weight on my good foot.
The ankle protested with a dull flare that wrapped up the side of my calf.
Two. My balance tipped forward, and I caught myself with the banister, the muscle in my forearm tightening around the grip.
Three. The strain caught up with me there, a sharper pulse in the cut along my ankle, as if the skin itself were reminding me how little it appreciated the movement.
My breath came quicker than it should have, each inhale cooler in my throat than the warm air I let out. The steady throb in my ankle became more insistent, echoing with the beat of my pulse. Sliding down on my ass might be smarter.
I eased myself down to sit on the step, careful not to jar my leg.
The dark red stair runner was cool beneath my thighs.
I shifted my weight, then pushed myself along until my hips reached the next step.
The movement was awkward. The rug scratched faintly at the backs of my calves, heat prickling under my skin.
Each shift forward dragged fabric against tender flesh, a slow rasp that made me feel flayed open in the quiet.
My palms stung from bracing on the edges, a reminder that I’d chosen this humiliation over calling for help.
Sweat prickled under my nightgown, the effort heavier than it should have been.
The ankle flared each time my weight tipped forward, sharp enough to catch in my throat.
I pressed my lips together, determined not to make a sound, not to invite footsteps rushing to stop me.
The rug rasped faintly against my skin as the hem of my gown slid upward, baring the tops of my thighs.
I tugged it back down once, muttering under my breath.
Ridiculous. Humiliating. But better this than calling out like a child who couldn’t manage stairs.
The thought of anyone seeing me like this made heat crawl up my neck.
Scooting down inch by inch, hem sliding up my thighs…
God, if Kara walked in right now, the look she’d give me would slice me in two.
She would never let me live it down. I clenched my jaw, tugged the fabric lower, and shoved the image out of my head.
Better to look foolish to myself than powerless in front of them.
One step at a time, I inched downward, using my hands against the edges of the treads for balance.
The banister stayed close enough for me to grip now and then, helping me keep steady.
My progress was slow, but I didn’t let myself stop.
I started down the second stretch of stairs.
Each slide brought the bottom of the stairs closer, and the thought of finally getting the pain medicine kept me focused.
The last few steps were close enough to make me believe I’d gotten away with it. Light spilled from the kitchen arch and relief slipped through me—until movement broke the glow. Ellie stepped into the foyer, tall and solid in the doorway, and froze when she saw me.
“What the hell are you doing, Sabine?”
I froze for a second under her look, then gave a small shrug. “My ankle’s killing me. I needed some medicine.” The words felt clumsy, like I’d been caught sneaking out past curfew.
She frowned. “Why didn’t you call out? I’d have come to you.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said, “I can handle it myself.”
Her eyes cut sharp, no trace of the easy grin I’d seen at dinner. “No, you can’t. Look at you.” She gestured at me perched on the stair like a child sneaking down past curfew. “Sweating, half-winded, dragging yourself one step at a time. That’s not handling it. That’s punishing yourself.”
Heat crawled up my neck. The words landed harder than I wanted to admit, stripping the last of my pride from the climb. I opened my mouth, ready to throw it back at her, but her voice came again, lower and harder this time.
“Stay there. Don’t move. Not another inch.”
Her gaze locked me in place, sharp enough that my body froze before my mind caught up. She didn’t need to raise her voice; the weight in her eyes was worse, stripping me of every ounce of defiance I’d been clinging to.
The command slid through me like iron. Not loud, not cruel, but absolute. My throat tightened around the retort I’d been about to spit. I clenched the banister instead, fury burning hotter because she was right, because I’d let her see me struggle.
She turned and walked back into the kitchen. The sound of her footsteps and the faint clink of the glass echoed from the archway through the foyer.
I sat there, feeling both foolish and stubborn at the same time.
Yesterday morning, I’d been running my own schedule, chasing my own leads, confident I could handle whatever landed in my lap.
Now I couldn’t even get down a flight of stairs without someone insisting I needed help.
I pressed my palm lightly to the step beside me, grounding myself against the rising frustration.
A glass of water and a couple of pills. That was all I’d been after. But the fact I couldn’t get them on my own was infuriating.