22. The Spy
The Spy
Monika
The notebook is small.
It's the kind of thing you'd buy at a drugstore—spiral-bound, cheap paper, a cover that's already starting to curl at the edges.
I keep it hidden in the lining of my coat, the one I wear when I go to the warehouse with Nathan.
The one he bought me because he said I needed something warmer than the thin jackets I'd brought from my apartment.
He doesn't know what I keep in the lining. He doesn't know that every time I go with him to the warehouse, I'm documenting everything.
The shipment dates. The client names. The locations. The amounts. The routes. I write it all down in my tiny, careful handwriting, my hands steady even when they're shaking on the inside.
I've been doing this for weeks.
The library is empty.
It's late—past midnight, past the hour when the servants retire, past the hour when the house should be sleeping. But I can't sleep. I've been sitting in this chair for hours, the veterinary textbook open in my lap, my eyes fixed on the page without seeing the words.
I'm thinking about Nathan. About the way he looked at me when I told him I would help him. About the way he said "I love you" like it was a curse and a prayer and the only thing he had left.
I'm thinking about Aleksander. About the way he held me in the hallway. About the way he said he would fix this, even if it destroyed him.
I'm thinking about Gabriel. About his desperate hope and his trembling hands and his unwavering belief that I could be saved.
They're all trying to save me. In their own way. In their own broken, monstrous, desperate way.
But I'm the one who's going to save them.
I'm the one who's going to save all of them—even if it kills me.
The warehouse is cold.
It's always cold—the concrete floors, the steel walls, the high ceilings that let all the heat escape. I've been here so many times now that I know the layout by heart. The loading dock. The offices. The cages.
The cages are what I dream about at night. The cages are what I see when I close my eyes.
Tonight, Nathan is showing me the new expansion. The new territory he's claimed for the empire. The new routes he's established.
"The market is growing," he says. "We're expanding into the Midwest. Chicago. Detroit. The demand is—"
"I know." I cut him off. My voice is flat. Professional. The voice I've learned to use when I'm gathering information. "Tell me about the routes."
He tells me. He tells me everything.
He doesn't know what I'm doing.
He doesn't know that every word he says is being recorded. Every date. Every name. Every detail.
He doesn't know that I'm building a case against him.
We're in the office.
It's a small room—a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet. The walls are concrete. The door is steel. There are no windows. No way out.
It's the same room I was held in. The same room where I waited for Tasha. The same room where I planned our escape.
Nathan is sitting at the desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's been drinking since we got here—not a lot, just enough to take the edge off. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His jaw is tight.
"You're quiet tonight," he says.
"I'm always quiet."
"No." He sets down the glass. "You're always thinking. There's a difference."
I don't respond. I just look at him—the sharp lines of his face, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the tension in his shoulders.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
He stands. He walks toward me. His movements are slow, deliberate, the way he moves when he's about to take something he wants.
"I need you," he says.
"You always need me."
"I know." He stops in front of me. His hands find my waist. "But tonight—tonight I need to feel something. I need to forget."
"Forget what?"
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me with those dark, hungry eyes, and I see something there. Something that looks almost like desperation.
"I need you," he says again.
I should say no. I should push him away. I should leave this room and go back to the mansion and lock myself in my room and pretend this isn't happening.
But I don't.
Because I need to feel something too.
He fucks me on the desk.
It's not passionate. It's not romantic. It's just sex—two bodies using each other to feel something other than the emptiness.
He pushes me back against the desk, his hands rough, his breath hot against my neck. I let him. I don't resist. I don't pretend.
He enters me without preamble. No foreplay. No tenderness. Just the hard, quick thrust of him inside me.
I gasp. Not because it hurts—it doesn't. Not because it feels good—it doesn't.
Because it feels like nothing.
He moves inside me with a rhythm that's almost mechanical. In and out. In and out. The same motion, over and over, like he's trying to fuck the demons out of himself.
"You're mine," he says. His voice is flat. Tired. "You're mine, Monika."
"I'm yours."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I'm yours, Nathan."
He doesn't respond. He just keeps moving, his eyes closed, his face blank. He's not here. He's somewhere else—somewhere in his head, somewhere in the darkness.
I look at the ceiling. The concrete. The single bulb hanging from a wire. I think about Tasha. About the way she looked at me when I told her I would get her out. About the way she trusted me.
I think about the notebook in my coat lining. The notebook that's going to destroy him.
He comes with a grunt. His body shudders against mine. He buries his face in my neck and he holds still for a long moment.
I don't come.
He hasn't made me come in weeks.
We lie on the floor afterward.
The concrete is cold against my back. Nathan is beside me, his breathing slow, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"That was..." He trails off. He doesn't finish.
"Yeah," I say. "It was."
He turns his head. He looks at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable.
"You're not happy," he says.
"I'm never happy."
"No." He reaches for my hand. His fingers are cold. "You used to be. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before all of this." He gestures vaguely. "Before the warehouse. Before the cages. Before you found out what I am."
I don't respond. I don't know how.
"I'm sorry," he says.
I've heard those words before. From him. From Aleksander. From Gabriel. They're always sorry. They're never sorry enough.
"For what?" I ask.
"For everything." He closes his eyes. "For making you into this. For turning you into someone who has to lie to survive. For being the reason you can't sleep at night."
I don't tell him that I'm not lying to survive. I don't tell him that I'm lying to destroy him.
Instead, I say, "I'm tired, Nathan."
"I know."
"I want to go home."
He doesn't argue. He doesn't try to keep me there. He just nods, once, and stands, and helps me to my feet.
"Okay," he says. "Let's go home."
The drive back is silent.
Nathan drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. His touch is light—almost absent—like he's forgotten I'm here.
I watch the city pass by the window. The buildings. The lights. The shadows that hide in the alleys.
I think about the notebook. About the case I'm building. About what happens when I finally have enough evidence to take him down.
He'll hate me. He'll never forgive me. He'll see me as the person who betrayed him—the person who destroyed him.
But I'll have saved him. I'll have saved the children. I'll have saved all of them.
I hope.
I hope it's enough.
We're in the foyer.
Nathan has his hand on my back. He's guiding me toward the stairs. He's tired—I can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the darkness under his eyes.
The next morning, I find the notebook gone.
I search my room. I search my coat. I search everywhere I can think of.
It's not there.
It's not anywhere.
I sit on the edge of my bed and I try to breathe.
Someone found it. Someone knows.
I don't know who. I don't know what they'll do with it.
But I know one thing.
I'm not going to stop.