Page 3 of Scarlet Chains
“What?” The word comes out as a roar.
“Ilona is gone, Osip. I can’t find her anywhere.”
The world feels like it’s spinning around me. Gone? I lean against the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass while the city lights blur below.
“What the fuck do you mean gone?” I push off from the window and resume pacing, more aggressively now. “Weren’t you supposed to be watching her?”
“I have no fucking idea,brat.” Melor’s voice carries defensive irritation. “She must have slipped out while I was downstairs. I checked on her room later and she was just… gone. All her things too.”
Slipped out.
Like she’s a teenager sneaking past her parents instead of a grown woman who chose to disappear.
Blyad!
I hang up on my useless brother and immediately dial Radimir. He’s the only one who might be able to help me figure out where she’s gone.
“What now,bratok?” Radimir’s voice carries mild exasperation. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Drop whatever you’re doing. Ilona is missing.” I stride into my study and start pulling open desk drawers, looking for…what? Evidence? Clues? Something that might tell me why she ran.
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Define ‘missing.’”
“Gone. Vanished. Do you want me to spell it out for you?” I slam a drawer shut with too much force. “Her room’s cleaned out. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I need to know where she is.”
“Alright, calm down. Give me ten minutes and I’ll trace her phone.”
Ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of my fucking life stretch ahead of me like hours. I can’t sit still, can’t think straight. I move through the house like a caged animal, checking every room again as if she might materialize from thin air.
In her bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet. Empty except for a bottle of aspirin and some cotton swabs.
Gone.
She’s fucking gone!
But why? What spooked her enough to pack everything and disappear without a word?
My phone rings. Radimir.
“Her phone last gave off a signal at Budapest airport,” he reports without preamble. “About two hours ago.”
Fuck. “Which terminal?”
“Near Terminal 2B. That’s all I can pinpoint from here.”
The airport. What the hell is she doing at the airport?
I grab my keys from the kitchen counter, adrenaline flooding my system. “I’m heading there now.”
“Osip, wait—”
But I’m already moving, slamming the front door behind me as I race toward my car. The BMW roars to life, and I tear out of the driveway with gravel spraying behind me.
The roads stretch out before me, mostly empty at this hour. Every traffic light feels like an eternity. Every slow-moving taxi becomes an obstacle between me and answers.
My mind churns through possibilities as I navigate the winding streets down from the hills. She could be meeting someone. Running away from something. Or someone could have forced her to go there.
But forced by whom? And why? The questions multiply faster than I can process them.
