Page 96 of Twisted Fate

I close my eyes again as footsteps approach the cabin door. It opens with a soft hydraulic hiss, and someone steps inside.

"Still out," a voice mutters. Not one I've heard before. "She should be waking up soon."

Rough hands check my restraints, tightening the zip ties until they bite painfully into my skin. I get the feeling they’re enjoying this, and I make a mental note to take out as many of these assholes as I can, if I get the chance. For now, I remain limp, controlling my breathing even as pain flares in my wrists.

"She doesn't look so dangerous," the voice continues, apparently talking to himself. "Pretty, though. Maybe Kane will share when he's done with her."

Fingers brush my cheek, trail down my neck to the collar of my shirt. Every instinct screams at me to react, to snap his fingers, to show him exactly how dangerous I am. But I remain still, biding my time. Being patient.

It’s a skill I’ve honed to perfection, thank fuck. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.

The hand withdraws abruptly as the sound of the boat's engine changes.

"We're approaching the island," he says, this time clearly speaking to someone else. "Get her ready to move."

Strong arms lift me none too gently, throwing me over a shoulder like a sack of flour. The change in position sends blood rushing to my head, intensifying the throbbing pain there. I risk another peek through my lashes.

We're heading up to the deck. I catch glimpses of a familiar coastline—white sand beaches fringed with palm trees, crystal blue water. Kane's island, just as I remember it, a paradise hiding a fortress.

My stomach tightens, fear and dread mingling in my stomach. I don’t expect Kane to forgive me twice. And I don’t know if Konstantin will follow me here. After all, I tried to kill him. I lied to him. He might want Kane dead for reasons of his own, but he might have a different timeline—one that doesn’t involve saving me.

I can’t count on him to rescue me. Not if I want to survive.

The boat slows, the engine dropping to an idle as we approach the private dock. I'm handed down to another set of hands, the island heat hitting me like a wall after the air-conditioned interior of the boat. Sweat immediately beads on my skin, plastering my hair to my forehead.

"Take her to the house," a new voice orders. This one I recognize immediately: Garrett, Kane's right-hand man. I’ve met him before, a number of times—he’s one of the only ones whose name I actually know. "Kane wants her in the cube."

The cube. My stomach clenches. I know exactly what that means.

I'm thrown into the back of a Jeep, my bound limbs making it impossible to brace myself. My shoulder hits the metal floor hard enough to bring involuntary tears to my eyes. The vehicle starts moving, bouncing over the rough track that leads from the dock to the main compound.

Through the back window, I watch the dock recede. The island is small—only a few square miles in total—but it will beheavily guarded—more so than his mansion in Miami. No one comes or goes without his explicit permission, and if anyone finds this place, they’re swiftly dealt with.

The Jeep climbs a winding road cut into lush tropical vegetation, eventually emerging at the crown of the island where Kane's compound sits like a modernist sculpture. All glass and white stone, geometric and imposing against the vibrant green backdrop. I’ve often wondered what architect designed it, how he would feel if he knew the horrors that had played out here.

I loved this place once, despite those horrors. Kane would bring me here when I was younger, after a difficult mission—to decompress, he said. He treated me better back then, when I was still all but a child, when I looked up to him. Now, this place feels like a grave. A trap. A lie, part of the web of lies that Kane wove around me and thought I would never figure out.

The Jeep stops at the main entrance. I'm hauled out and dragged inside, my feet scraping uselessly against marble floors. The interior is cool and dim after the bright island sun, darkening the space behind my eyelids. I keep my eyes closed, reasoning that if they think I’m still unconscious, they’re more likely to give something away. As soon as I’m clearly awake, everyone will be careful about what they say.

I’m thrown over another shoulder, carried for several minutes until I hear thebeepof a biometric scanner—one that Garrett must have clearance for. I can picture the route we might have taken—past rooms where I once moved freely, where I trained and studied and prepared for missions. Past the library where Kane taught me about art and literature, cultivating an aura of refinement that would help me move in elite circles. Past the dojo where I learned to kill in a dozen different ways.

I know, as I hear the door slide open, that we’re in the cube. I can feel the air shift, feel the emptiness of the space. I know it’s at the far side of the house, a perfect transparent glass cube builtoff the side of it. Three walls and the ceiling are glass, providing a panoramic view of the ocean hundreds of feet below. The fourth wall, connecting to the rest of the house, is solid grey stone. The floor is glass too, suspended over nothing but air and jagged rocks.

It was designed as a meditation space, Kane had told me once. A place to contemplate the beauty of nature, uninhibited by anything else. I’ve been in here before, and I hated it. I always suspected it would be a useful space for psychological torture. The constant exposure, the vertigo, the feeling of being suspended in space with nowhere to hide.

I'm thrown onto the glass floor, the impact sending shock waves of pain through my already battered body. The zip ties are cut from my ankles but left on my wrists. The gag is yanked roughly from my mouth, leaving my lips chafed.

"Make yourself comfortable," Garrett sneers. "Kane will be with you soon."

He strides out, the heavy glass door sliding shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss. A soft click indicates the electronic lock engaging. I'm alone in the glass box, and I finally open my eyes, slowly, trying to not look everywhere at once and give myself vertigo.

I hate heights. I always have. Kane brought me in here a number of times to try to break me of that. I learned to adapt to it, to not panic, but I’ve never grown to like it. And now, as I push myself to a sitting position on the glass floor, I can feel my heart crawling up my throat.

The waves are crashing all around me, the sun bright and blinding, the rocks glistening below me. I swallow hard, trying to regulate my breathing as all the various pains in my body make themselves known. My shoulder throbs where it hit the Jeep floor. My head still pounds from the tranquilizer. My wrists arerubbed raw beneath the zip ties. But nothing seems broken. I can move. I’m still functional, if I can get out of these zip ties.

I know there’s no escape route from this room, no weakness in its construction. The glass is bulletproof, shatterproof—I know because I've tested it before, as a child, out of curiosity. The door lock is biometric, keyed to Kane's fingerprint and retina, and whoever he deems worthy of clearance. He will have removed mine, I don’t even bother getting up to try.

I think of Konstantin, of where he might be right now. I wonder if he’s frantic, trying to figure out how to get to me. I both want him to be, and don’t, all at the same time—and it’s the strangest experience I’ve ever had. I don’t want him to hurt, to feel fear, and yet… I want him to love me enough to come for me, no matter what. I want him to be desperate to get me back.

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