Page 7 of Scarlet Chains
I weave between travelers, using bodies as shields. A family with three young children struggles with an overloaded baggage cart, the mother looking frazzled as one child breaks away to press his face against a window overlooking the tarmac. A group of backpackers— university-aged, probably American based on their loud English and casual clothes— debates which overpriced airport restaurant to choose for dinner.
Normal people living normal lives, unaware that a kidnapping victim is passing inches from their elbows.
The departure gates loom ahead like salvation. My Boston flight— I dig the boarding pass from my pocket with shaking fingers, the paper damp with sweat and terror. Gate B14. “Final Call” flashes in stern red letters on the departure board overhead.
Please still be there.
Please don’t let me be too late.
“Please,” I gasp to the gate agent, voice hoarse. “I’m here. I need to get on that plane.”
She takes in my disheveled appearance— wild hair, tear-streaked face, bare feet— but scans my ticket without questions. Professional efficiency overriding curiosity.
The jet bridge feels like a tunnel to salvation. Every step puts more distance between me and the men who wanted to steal my life. By the time I stow my battered backpack into the overhead compartment and then collapse into my assigned seat, my entire body shakes with reaction.
“Holy shit,” I wheeze out. “Holy fucking shit!”
The middle-aged businessman in the seat beside me shoots me a disapproving look before turning his attention back to his tablet, studiously ignoring me. Good. I hope it stays that way.
I buckle my seatbelt and sink back into my chair, allowing myself to breathe for the first time since I got out of that vehicle. Through the small window, I watch the terminal as the plane begins to taxi. Every moment, I expect figures to emerge brandishing weapons. For the plane to grind to a halt and be dragged off it.
And then, something happens. For a split second, I see a figure standing near the windows— tall, dark-haired, perfectly still while chaos moves around him. Even from this distance, something about his posture, the set of his shoulders, sends recognition shooting through me like lightning.
Stanley?
Again?
How the hell…
“No!” I choke.
It can’t be. It’s impossible. But as the plane turns toward the runway, I’m certain it was him. Stanley Morrison, my ex-boyfriend, the man I left back in Boston. Standing in Budapest Airport on the exact day someone tried to kidnap me.
The coincidence feels too sharp, too deliberate to be random.
The plane lifts off, carrying me away from Hungary and whatever web of danger I’d stumbled into. Below, the Danube curves through Budapest like a silver ribbon, the Parliament building’s Gothic spires growing smaller until they disappear entirely. But even as the familiar landscape falls away beneath clouds, my thoughts drift to Osip. Despite everything— the questions, the fear, the terrible possibility that he’s involved— part of me aches to leave him behind.
I love him. The admission comes unbidden, unwanted, but undeniable. I love the man who turned my world upside down.
And I’m carrying his child.Stillcarrying his child. Dr. Varga’s words echo in my mind— the impossible miracle that defied my endometriosis, that grew from our desperate need for each other. The baby of the man who might have orchestrated my kidnapping.
The baby of the man who killed my father.
The irony is so sharp it cuts. But as Hungary disappears beneath us, I know with crystalline certainty that whatever grows inside me, whatever truth waits in Boston, I’ll protect this child with everything I have.
Even from its own father, if necessary.
Even from the only man who’s ever made me feel complete.
Chapter Three
Osip
I weave through Budapest’s evening traffic like a man possessed.
Every red light is a personal insult. Every slow-movingsukain front of me might as well be signing their own death warrant. The engine of my BMW roars as I downshift and cut between two buses, their horns blaring behind me like the soundtrack to my rage.
Ilona.
