Page 2 of Broken Embers

I bite back the questions tumbling through my mind. I need to focus and keep track of where we’re going.

We ride in silence for the next ten minutes, as the general is preoccupied with his phone. My eyes are locked on the window, watching the city blur into darkness as we head out of Moscow. I’ve been silently clocking every turn, every landmark. I’ve been here for three weeks—I know the bones of this city now.

But soon we’re leaving the city, heading into the unknown. Ten minutes out on a long, silent road, the SUV pulls over in the middle of nowhere. Snow glitters in the moonlight like shattered glass, and my gut twists.

My first thought is,‘This is it. I’m going to be executed and dumped in the woods.’

“Is this where you shoot me and leave my body on the side of the road?” I try to keep my voice steady as if I’m not fucking petrified.

“Why would we go to all the trouble of extracting you from that Mirochin fortress just to kill on the side of the road?” The general gives me a confused look.

“Because isn’t that what people like you do?”

He opens a center compartment between the seats and pulls out a long black strip of fabric—a blindfold.

“You don’t have a high opinion of us, do you?” He watches me intently.

“You did storm the Mirochin mansion and kidnap me in the middle of the night—what am I supposed to think?” I point out.

“I need to put this on you.” The general holds up the blindfold.

“Are you serious?” I stare at the item like it’s a poisonous snake. “And what if I refuse?”

“I would prefer not to harm you,” he says. “But if you resist, I will use chloroform.”

My hand twitches toward my stomach before I can stop it, then clenches into a fist in my lap. No. That could hurt the baby. No matter what’s waiting at the end of this road, I won’t risk my child.

“Fine,” I grit out. “Blindfold it is.”

He places it over my eyes with surprising care, careful not to brush the wound on my forehead. Darkness crashes over me like a second skin.

The SUV starts again, and this time, every jolt and turn is disorienting. I count in my head, try to track it, but after ten minutes I’m hopelessly lost.

A stop.

Russian murmurs.

Another turn.

Another stop.

The door opens and two sets of hands guide me out. I stumble slightly but don’t let them see me falter. I keep walking, stone-faced, as I’m led down a corridor that seems to stretch forever. Each step echoes like a countdown.

Then the blindfold comes off.

The light is so bright I squint, my vision swimming. I blink hard, disoriented until shapes emerge.

A woman stands across from me.

She is tall, maybe five inches taller than me, with dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek knot, flawless ivory skin, sharp cheekbones that cut like glass. Regal. She looks poised and dangerous.

She is speaking quietly to General Ergorov. Beneath her arm is a yellow folder, and while in her hands she’s holding a sleek tablet that her eyes keep darting to. Eventually, their conversation finishes, and General Ergorv turns toward me.

“We will meet again, Miss Craft.”

Something in the way he says it tells me he means soon—and it’s not a promise. It’s a threat.

He walks out, leaving me in this fluorescent cage with Miss Russian Ice Queen. I meet her gaze, unnerved by how much she reminds me of my mother. There’s something in her eyes—familiar, cold, calculating.

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