Page 1 of Broken Embers

1

SABRINA

I step through the door of the Mirochin mansion into the night, and somehow the quiet of the darkness seems louder than the chaos that came before it. The silence wraps around me like a noose as I walk away from the man I love, the home that had started to feel like mine, and the child I just claimed wasn’t mine.

I bite back the tears. Each step I take is heavier than the last, my body screaming at me to turn around, to run. But I don’t.

I don’t run. I don’t beg. I don’t cry.

I walk.

Because I have to.

I have to protect the people I love—even if it means walking straight into the line of fire.

Only this time... It’s not just me walking into it, and I will do whatever it takes to protect the new little life growing inside me as well.

I don’t allow my hand to drift to my stomach the way I want to. I can’t. I won’t. If they knew—I stop myself from shuddering at the way the general had eyed Elena when he thought she was Sabrina’s daughter. I can’t let on that I’m pregnant.

The SUV waiting at the base of the steps looks almost too ordinary. It’s jet-black, with tinted windows, and the engine is idling quietly, like it’s not the steel coffin I know it is. A soldier opens the back door for me, and I duck inside without hesitation, keeping my chin high and my fear buried deep beneath the practiced calm on my face.

The door slams shut behind me, and just like that, I’m sealed in.

Beside me, General Vladislav Ergorov sits like a ghost carved from bone and steel, his face carved with cold lines and shadowed purpose.

I meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he nods once, almost cordially as the vehicle starts to move.

“I am General Ergorov,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You kidnapped me. I think we’re past fucking introductions.”

His lips press into a thin, unimpressed line. “Watch your tongue, Miss Craft. Where we are going, such insolence will not serve you well.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, keeping my voice even, even though my pulse is pounding against my ribs like a warning drum.

“I cannot tell you that,” he replies. “But we will arrive soon as it’s not too far.”

He leans toward me suddenly, fingers reaching out toward my temple. I flinch, twisting just enough to avoid his touch.

His hand drops, but his tone turns icy. “Did Mirochin do this to you?”

“No,” I say firmly. “I fell and hit the floor.”

He studies me for a moment longer, the scrutiny in his eyes prickling like barbed wire against my skin. It’s clear he doesn’t believe me. But he lets it go.

“You are free of him now,” he says.

His words slice straight through me.

Free of him?

The bile rises to the back of my throat.

Does he think he’s somehow rescuing me?

What the fuck is happening?

What the fuck does the Russian Special Forces want with me?

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