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I’d do anything I needed to in order to get Bella safely back home. To make sure that she doesn’t stay in the hands of a monster.
Edgar parks at the agreed-upon spot, far enough back that no one should see the car in the shadows. I slip out, past the treeline, dressed in black pants, a black shirt, and a black cap pulled low over my eyes to mimic what a good deal of Igor’s security seems to wear. My heart is thudding against my ribs, beating with trepidation at the knowledge that every step is one closer to Bella—or to a failure that will shatter both my life and hers.
The staff entrance is patrolled by two rotating security guards. I wait from the shadows as I watch them go right and left, briefly leaving the door unguarded. It’s my chance to move, and I slip across the manicured lawn, sticking to the shadowed trees, to the back door.
To my relief, it’s not locked. We didn’t think it would be—a staff entrance is usually left open up to a certain point in the night, but it was impossible to be absolutely sure. The door opens easily, and I slip into the cool silence of Igor’s mansion, fear still thrilling down my spine.
There’s no going back from here. I force myself to behave naturally, in case anyone spied me coming in—not like someone sneaking around, which is a difficult thing to fake. If I look suspicious at all, I’m more likely to draw suspicion. But I’m a businessman, not an actor or a soldier, and my nerves feel frayed raw as I move forward, through the mudroom and out into what appears to be a large kitchen.
It’s silent and dark. I go over the path to Bella’s room in my head as I walk with purpose, sticking to the hallways. I looked at the map of the mansion until the floor plan was burned into my memory, and I let that guide me, slipping through the house and up the stairways. I move with purpose, an affectation of a man with somewhere specific to be—and that part, at least, is true, which makes it easier.
The next possible obstacle is whether or not Bella’s door is locked. I have a lockpick that Edgar gave me for exactly that purpose, but that will take time, and I’m not practiced in using it. The best-case scenario is that Bella’s door is unlocked, but I have a feeling that’s unlikely. And I’ll have to be quick, if I need to use the lockpick. If anyone sees me, it’ll be clear that I’m doing something I shouldn’t.
My heart beats faster as I pass by two of Igor’s security, walking the opposite way from the stairs, across the second-floor hallway. But they barely look at me, both of them conversing with each other. My disguise, it seems, is at least good enough to keep from drawing casual attention. The real test will come when I try to leave with Bella.
I head up the next flight of stairs, mentally counting doorways to the one that should be Bella’s. This all relies on nothing having changed—if Igor has moved her to a different room, it’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack. Dozens of rooms, with no further clue as to which one she might be in or whether she’ll be brought back to this one—or who else might be in those other rooms, if I went searching.
The door is locked. There’s no way to know who might have the key—the lockpick is the only option. Cursing under my breath, I take the lockpick out of my pocket, glancing up and down the hall. There’s no sign of anyone else, no sounds of footsteps or any other hint that someone might be coming. Regardless, I know I probably don’t have long.
Edgar showed me how to use it, but that doesn’t make it easy. I force myself to focus on keeping my hands steady—not thinking about the consequences of failure or what might happen if I’m caught. For a brief, terrifying moment, I can’t get it to catch, and I grit my teeth, refusing to accept failure. Getting caught is the worst possible outcome, but neither can I fathom the idea of simply turning and walking away, of being so close to Bella and just leaving her here in the end.
I can’t abandon her. Not now.
There’s an echo of footsteps, coming up the stairs, and I twist the pick, breath catching, as I wait to see if it clicks. I don’t dare look over my shoulder, or see how close someone might be. All I can do is try to get into the room before I’m seen.
A flood of relief hits me when I feel it give. I open the door, slipping inside and closing it just as the footsteps start to get closer. I turn, and the relief is amplified a hundred times over when I see Bella standing on the other side of the room, frozen in shock.
Her mouth drops partway open, and I yank my hat off, pressing one finger to my lips. She says nothing, but her shocked expression turns fearful as she looks at the door, and she takes a step back. I can see her trembling, her eyes wide, and her hands twisting in front of her.
Quickly, I cross the room to her. I want to ask her if she’s alright, but that feels like a complicated question, one that can’t really be answered right now.
“Does anyone come up this late?” I ask her quietly, glancing back towards the door. Bella shakes her head, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.
“Gabriel, what are you?—”
“Getting you out of here. I have a plan. But we have to be very careful, and very quiet. And I need to touch you.” I reach out towards her arm, giving her a moment to say no. But she just swallows hard and nods, her eyes wide and round with fear.
I hate seeing her afraid.
But in this particular moment, her fear is useful. If anyone does catch us, I need to sell that I’m taking her somewhere against her will, and that’s only possible if she looks frightened.
“You’ll be safe soon. Just follow me.” I reach out, my hand gripping her upper arm just above the elbow.
“Gabriel, no,” she breathes, shaking her head and tugging back slightly against my grip. “You shouldn’t have come?—”
“I know. But I’m here now. Bella, we have to go?—”
“No!” She hisses the word, shaking her head harder, and I can feel the shivers running through her, her every muscle wound tight as if that’s all that’s keeping her from collapsing. “I have to stay. If Igor finds out I’ve tried to leave—if I leave—he’ll hurt you, and the children…he threatened Cecelia—” The words tumble out in a string of trembling whispers, and I can see tears welling up in her eyes.
“I’m not leaving without you, Bella.” I reach up, cupping her chin in one hand as I face her, my heart pounding as I desperately try to get her to listen to me. “I’m already here. If we keep standing here arguing, I’m dead. And Igor will take it out on you, too. We have to get moving, or he will hurt us both.”
Something about that shakes her fear loose. She swallows hard, her eyes searching my face rapidly, and then she nods. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice shaking so hard that the word cracks and trails off at the end. “Gabriel?—”
“We’ll talk after we get you out of here. Just follow me,” I repeat, gently rubbing my thumb over her elbow as I tug her forward. We don’t have time to waste, but I can’t stand the feeling of her shaking while I’m touching her.
We just have to get out. That’s all. I can’t let myself imagine failure. I have to get her out of here. That’s the only outcome I can allow myself to think of as a possibility.
I hesitate at the door, listening for footsteps. I hear nothing—whoever was coming up the stairs must have passed by or gone back down. Another beat, and when there’s still nothing, I open the door and step out into the hall, still holding Bella by the arm.
