Page 12 of Blazing Embers

Clyde was right. When facing an enemy that has the upper hand, sometimes psychological warfare is the best course of action. Even the greatest narcissists, dictators, and megalomaniacs aren’t immune to that dreaded emotion—doubt.

Once doubt seeps in, it’s like a root rot that can only be gotten rid of by eventually completely destroying the tree, roots and all. It is a powerful tool that can be wielded in many ways, and while it might not affect a person on a basic level, it burrows its way into a person's subconscious. Once there, it attacks you when you least expect it, and can be triggered by one of the senses, haunting a person's dreams.

I turn my face further away from Ruslan as I watch the unfamiliar landscape and skyline to hide the sly smile I can’t stop from spreading across my lips. I don’t give a fuck what he has planned for me. I’m ready for anything he throws at me. And while my flesh might be weak when it comes to him, my mind is not, and after being locked away for seven long months and then on the run for one, my time wasn’t ill spent.

Training wasn’t the only thing Clyde taught me, and after the shock of who, or rather what, I really am wore off, I knew the only way I’d get through the rest of my life is to understand this monster inside me. Because, like Clyde chilling pointed out, I’m not like the other Jewel Initiative subjects. Kids who underwent the experiment before puberty kicked in. Their genetic coding was rewritten by brute force. They were used as before-and-after baselines to compare their DNA to.

But for me? From the day my biological psycho fucking mother thought she may be pregnant the treatment started. Pre-birth cellular conditioning. No re-coding necessary. My cells never knew normal. My brain developed under constant stimulation. My nervous system was taught to react before it could understand why. There was no version of me without the Jewel Initiative—no baseline to compare to. I’m not something that changed—I’m something that was designed to be this from the beginning—a custom-designed and built baby!

Like the rest of the Jewel Initiative subjects, this was done to us as well. The difference between them and me? One of the side effects of the treatment for the rest of the subjects is that they can’t have kids. It rendered both male and female subjects sterile, which is not the case for me. So it might have appeared harsh, my deception of a miscarriage. But the truth is, if the Russian government got the slightest hint about Elena being my blood? I suppress a shudder. So, fuck yeah, I’ll take whatever I have to take to protect my little girl. Even if it means I never see her again. Sam, Clyde, and the rest of the ghosts that escaped the program have all sworn to help and protect her with their lives. They are Elena and my extremely special sister, Sabrina’s silent guardians.

My heart pulls at the thought of never seeing Elena, my sister, and my mother again, and I fight away the tears stinging the back of my eyes. I feel Ruslan shift in the seat beside me, and his eyes burning into the back of my head as I slowly turn to glance at him. Our eyes meet, and I feel the instant ignition of desire I always do, even at just the thought of him; it is strong. Being this near to him, it’s like a slow-burning fire of acid creeping through every nerve of my being. But if I can control the rage inside me, I can control this.

His eyes are cold, but his pupils dilate, and I find great pleasure in knowing he, too, is burned by this raging inferno of desire that burns between us and how hard he, too, has to fight to keep it contained. I get it. I use the memory of how he and his sister used me as a pawn in the power struggle to keep myself from going up in flames when he gets close to me.

Like now, just the flicker of remembering how people like them think others are just there to be used and manipulated at their pleasure, us mere mortals with no will or say in our destiny, makes my blood boil with red-hot rage.

Fuck that! My eyes hold his, and a calm replaces the daily aching torment I feel like a bruise on my soul at not being with my little girl. Sitting here right now proves that I did the right thing, and I will gladly bear the brunt and pay for the actions I had to take to do it. Because while my genetics were primed from conception, hers were inherited, and God only knows what they will mean. There is no way in hell I will let Ruslan Dragunov or anyone else get their hands on my baby girl.

“We’re nearly there,” Ruslan’s voice is low and clipped.

I turn and glance out the window again, surprised to see we’re in the middle of Moscow, not on the outskirts of it, where Ipresumed Ruslan’s lair was located. My brow furrows. Maybe we’re making a stop at his law firm?

The streets grow narrower the deeper we drive, the modern glass towers giving way to austere buildings with thick stone façades and ornate balconies that whisper old power. There’s no traffic here. No honking, no blaring ads. Just the slow, deliberate hum of the tires on well-maintained cobblestones.

It’s eerie. Like we’ve slipped into another version of Moscow—one that doesn’t exist on maps.

I shift in my seat, eyes narrowing as we round a tight corner. Wrought-iron fencing rises on either side, separating us from the sidewalk. Cameras line the posts. High. Hidden in the ornamental steelwork, but I clock every one of them.

Ruslan says nothing. I just keep looking, my heart starting to pick up speed as my mind whirrs, trying to guess where we are or what’s going on.

Ahead, the car slows at a security gate tucked beneath an arched stone tunnel. Two guards in gray uniforms with rifles across their chests stand motionless. No words. No ID check. Just a quick nod toward the windshield and the gate hisses open.

My heart starts ticking even faster, and I can feel the adrenaline beginning to drip from my rising fight-or-flight senses.

We glide forward under the archway and into a private courtyard surrounded by towering limestone walls. The windows here are tall, narrow, and I’m guessing reinforced. Flags flutter in the breeze, with only one I recognize as the Russian Federation. The other... looks like something older. Faded red and gold, with a double-headed eagle and Cyrillic script carved into the stone above the main entrance.

I lean forward, pressing my palm against the tinted glass, taking in the fact that there are no commercial signs or gaudy logos framing spaces on the wall. There is a cold, clinical sense of history displayed in a way that is meant to intimidate, and I don’t think this is a law office.

This place reeks of closed-door power—definitely government.

The car stops beside a flight of wide marble stairs. Pavel gets out and pulls open my door. Ruslan doesn’t move.

I glance at him, and my pulse feels sharp in my throat as if it’s poking my skin. “Where are we?”

Ruslan adjusts the cuff of his jacket and finally meets my eyes, saying flatly, “Court.”

My brows pinch together, but before I can ask anything, Ruslan nearly pushes me out of the car.

I step out slowly, blinking against the sharp bite of the Moscow wind as it knifes through my blouse, and I hug the coat I’m wearing closed. Fuck this place is cold. I’m a desert brat used to the heat. Trying to forget my freezing extremities, I take in my surroundings. The buildings around us are ancient, dressed in carved limestone and dark marble. Imposing, gray, thick with the chill of history and the hush of secrets. Not baroque like the tourist-littered palaces. This section of the city is colder.

Ruslan slides out next, his coat catching the wind like a storm brewing behind me. He kind of reminds me of Dracula at this moment. I shake off my ridiculous thoughts. My coping mechanism to distract myself from every single nerve end in my body going into alert. My subconscious demanding, what the fuck are we doing at court?

Ruslan grabs the back of my arm, his fingers digging in harder than necessary, and I get the subtle warning he’s switched out the ropes that bound me on the plane with brute force.

“Why are we in court?” I ask as I’m dragged up the stairs and through the door. “What, am I pledging allegiance to the Motherland or getting sworn into some underground blood cult?”

Ruslan doesn’t bite. Doesn’t even blink. But his hand clamps a little tighter around my arm, propelling me forward. As I try not to fumble over my feet as I keep up with his long, deliberate stride, a quiet dread blooms in my gut and the place is so deserted and cold, each of our steps seems to echo louder than the last as we approach an entryway, guarded by two men in full military dress. They nod once at Ruslan. That’s all it takes. No ID. No protocol. Just recognition. Which is par for the course, Ruslan’s not just anyone in Russia.

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