Page 111 of Mission Shift

I pulled the key from the cloth and slipped it into the lock. There was a quiet click.

Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chapter thirty-four

The door slammed behind me.

I twisted the lock, then staggered to the toilet. My stomach clenched, heaving up the vile gelatinous fish aspic that Malinov had forced me to eat. With each heave, acid burned my throat.

Svetlana was dead. She’d paid the ultimate sacrifice to help me. The only person who had shown me kindness since this ordeal started, gone—left bleeding out in that hellhole in the basement, her death meaningless, nothing more than a warning to me.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, pressing my forehead onto the cool tile wall. No more playing along. No more waiting for the perfect opportunity that would never come.

I was getting out. Now.

The encapsulated poison lodged inside me didn’t matter. If I had to cut my own goddamn arm off once I was free, so be it. Better that than letting Malinov put his hands on me again. Better to die on my own terms than live as his possession.

I straightened, forcing down the bile that threatened to rise again. My stomach churned—not from the foul aspic but from the gut punch of watching Svetlana die because of me. I braced myself against the sink, gripping the counter, forcing steady breaths as I let the cold water run. Cupping a handful, I rinsed my mouth, took a few sips, and splashed my face. The shock of it did nothing to quiet the sick feeling clawing through me.

I pressed my palms against the counter, studying the window beside the sink. It wasn’t huge, but I could fit through it. The two-story drop was another problem. Maybe there was something I could climb down. If not, I’d drop and roll. I’d survived worse.

The frame was secured with screws. A problem—but not an impossible one.

I reached down, sliding my fingers into the bodice of my dress, feeling for the blade sewn into a small pocket in the ribbing. My breath hitched when I found it. I pulled it free. Malinov had discovered the combat knife Svetlana gave me, but he hadn’t found the smaller blade or the other items. Small miracles.

A shudder rolled through me at the memory of my other knife, the one that had been used to slash Svetlana’s throat.

My grip on the blade trembled—not from fear. From rage.

It was the kind of rage that settled into the bones, clarified the mind, and sharpened the precision of movement.

I kicked off my heels and lifted myself onto the counter, my dress catching on the ledge as I crouched. The slit up my leg allowed for decent maneuverability, but the fabric still dragged. I reached up, angling the blade toward the first screw in the window frame.

The lock behind me clicked.

Every one of my muscles snapped tight. I pivoted, blade ready, as the door inched open. Someone had come to check on me. Maybe Malinov himself.

But it wasn’t him.

It was a ghost.

Braxton.

My mind stalled, refusing to process the image of the man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be gone—back in America, living his easy life, oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.

Yet here he was, a tux hugging his frame, looking like he had just walked out of a high-roller casino. All the anger and hurt I’d been holding onto flared in an instant.

I launched myself at him, slicing the blade through the air, aiming for his throat.

Braxton barely dodged. He twisted at the last second, and the tip of the knife skimmed past his skin. His hand shot up, clamping around my wrist, but I wrenched free, circling him, ready to strike again.

“Daria, wait—” he whispered harshly.

I slashed again.

He sidestepped, catching my forearm this time, his grip firm enough to keep the knife from hitting its target.

“Let go of me,” I spat, breathing hard.

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