Page 100 of Mission Shift

Inside the limousine, Svetlana sat across from me, staring out the window. The soft glow of the passing streetlights flickered across her face, highlighting the tension she hid well. She had risked everything to help me. And now, she was walking into the fire beside me, knowing full well that if Malinov discovered what she’d done, he’d kill her without hesitation.

I clenched my jaw and turned my attention to the city outside, forcing my hands to stay loose in my lap instead of gripping the seat. If I got out of this alive, I would owe her more than gratitude. I would owe her a future where she never had to fear men like Yakov or my father again.

The limo glided toward the estate’s reinforced gates. The security was impressive, with seamlessly integrated biometric scanners. As the vehicle approached, the driver lowered thewindow and turned his face toward the sensor. It took only seconds for his identity to be verified before the system granted access. A soft mechanical hum followed, and the gates slid open without hesitation. Ahead of us, towering brick walls loomed, stretching into the fading daylight. Armed guards lined the perimeter, stationed at key points like statues, waiting for an excuse to kill.

The vehicle slowly wound around to the back of the estate, past the grand entryway lined with red carpets where high-profile guests were starting to arrive. We didn’t stop there, however. Instead, we went to a servants’ entrance that was hidden in the shadows—discreet and unassuming.

The limousine rolled to a smooth stop. One of Malinov’s men yanked the door open, and Svetlana stepped out with practiced grace, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt before tucking her hands neatly behind her back. Her expression settled into polite neutrality, her posture impeccable. Without hesitation, she moved toward the entrance, her pace brisk but unhurried, seamlessly merging with the other staff entering through the service door. She didn’t look back.

I didn’t get the luxury of entering the house on my own.

Malinov’s men waited impatiently next to the limo. One seized my wrist, dragging me out before I could step out. The other clamped a bruising grip on my arm, his fingers biting into my flesh. So much for my father’s order not to mark me before I was given to my latest cruel captor.

“Walk,” one of them ordered.

I held my head high and did exactly that.

Keeping my pace purposefully slow, I moved forward. The stone beneath my feet was smooth and polished, gleaming beneath the dim light of the sconces. Once we stepped inside the house, I counted the turns, noted the exits, and clocked the positioning of every man stationed along the way. I carefullymemorized everything—every inch of the place I could lay eyes on.

They pulled me through a narrow corridor, down a shadowy stairwell, deeper and deeper into the belly of the mansion. The temperature dropped the farther we descended. At the bottom, dim overhead lights cast a sterile glow against dark-paneled walls. As we walked down the hallway, the smooth marble floors gave way to rougher stone. Muffled laughter and the steady thrum of music seeped down through the ceiling.

A reinforced door waited at the end of the hallway. One of the men punched in a code on the keypad next to it. After a soft beep and a heavy clunk, the lock disengaged.

They shoved me inside, and the door slammed shut.

Silence.

I stood still, taking in the space.

Black stone walls, black marble floors, and recessed lighting that cast muted, eerie pools of gold on the walls. It wasn’t a prison cell. It wasn’t a guest suite. It was a space designed to break someone slowly—a mix between a BDSM playroom and a torture chamber. A shudder ran down my spine as I thought of those who had breathed their last breaths in this place.

I crossed the room, ignoring the unmistakable presence of cameras. Malinov was watching. He would expect me to react. To panic. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I stiffened my spine and toured the suite.

The space was large—too large for comfort. One open room, lavish and cold. To my left sat a massive bed, its carved headboard the color of blood, draped in slate-gray sheets that looked like they belonged in some billionaire’s penthouse suite. Straight ahead, a sleek kitchenette stood against the far wall, all black steel and sharp lines. Next to it stretched a wide wooden bar, the surface gleaming with imported liquor and crystal decanters, like some twisted invitation to unwind. A high-endentertainment system sat adjacent to it, screens dark for now but undoubtedly ready to play whatever sick thing Malinov chose.

But what truly turned my stomach were the other furnishings. Polished steel tables with leather restraints bolted to the corners. A rack of sexual implements made for a man who liked to cause pain. Hooks embedded into the walls. A padded bench that didn’t belong in any home theater.

This wasn’t a suite. It was a performance stage. And I was the one meant to unravel inside it.

And then there was the closet.

In it was a full wardrobe, meticulously arranged. Dresses. Designer heels. Silk lingerie in delicate pastels and harsh blacks. Leather harnesses. Chains.

My stomach tightened.

Had these been bought for me? Or had they been used by someone before me?

I moved to the bathroom. It was ultramodern, luxurious. A rainfall shower. A sunken tub. Enough high-end toiletries to rival a five-star hotel. But no windows—no windows in the entire underground tomb. No vents large enough to crawl through either.

I exhaled slowly. There was definitely no way out.

I walked to the bar, pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge, twisted the cap, and took a slow sip. Then I sat, composed, and placed the bottle in front of me on the glass table, waiting patiently.

The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. The door swung open, and several burly men strode in, positioning themselves on either side.

Then Yakov Malinov swaggered inside like he owned my soul.

Ugly. Cruel.

---