Page 106 of Stolen Empire

---

The skin splits.

Blood wells up and beads, dripping down my jaw.

I don't scream, but the whimpers won't stop.

He steps back, wiping the blade on his pants.

"Gag her. We'll deal with her later."

One of the men produces a rag, shoving it into my mouth.

I gag, trying to spit it out, but he ties it tight behind my head as more tears stream down my face.

My wrists burn, but there's nothing I can do to free myself.

"Let's go," the older man says.

"We have other business to attend to."

The footsteps fade.

The door slams.

And a lock clicks into place.

I'm alone.

The room is silent except for my ragged breathing.

Blood drips from my cheek onto my shirt.

I can feel it soaking through and the sting where they cut me.

My wrists burn where the rope digs in and my jaw throbs from being struck.

But I'm alive.

I test the rope, pulling at my wrists.

The knots are tight, biting deeper with every movement.

Pain flares up my arms, but I don't stop.

I twist my hands, trying to find slack.

There's a tiny bit of give on the left side so I work at it, against the fear welling up.

Against the thoughts that taunt me, telling me I'm going to die here.

Against the questions that plague me—who is Ekaterina Morozova?

I work at it, ignoring the way the rope saws into my skin.

Blood makes the rope slick.

I pull harder, wrenching my hand at an angle that sends fire shooting up my arm and makes my wrist feel like it's being dislocated.

The rope loosens.

---