Page 81 of His Contract Queen

The basement is empty.

The door to the tunnel sits only a few feet away from where I stand. The concrete floor is brutally cold beneath my bare feet. The sensation sends a violent shiver racing up my spine, nearly making my teeth chatter. My arms instinctively wrap tight around my midsection as I try to hold in what little warmth my thin T-shirt and shorts can provide me with.

When I reach it, I stop.

My hand hovers over the rusted metal handle, freezing in the air as it remains suspended. My eyes travel from the door down to the floor where my bare feet are pale looking against the concrete floor.

A quiet, incredulous laugh almost escapes me.

How exactly am I supposed to walk through snow with no shoes?

The tunnel may lead me out of this house, but it exits practically in the woods halfway down the hill behind the estate. The stormoutside has been building for hours. By now the ground must be buried under several inches of fresh powder.

If I try to run through that barefoot, I might not even make it fifty yards. Dying of exposure while trying to escape this nightmare would be tragically ironic. I fought so hard to get away from the FSB and escape the fate of being locked in a cell for the rest of my life.

For it all to end because of something as stupid and indifferent as winter pisses me off to no end.

I stare at the door for another moment, letting out a slow breath that fogs faintly in the cold basement air.

I have to try.

Turning around and going back upstairs isn’t an option. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I walk back into their arms and let them take me like a compliant prisoner. I didn’t expose my father in front of half of Moscow’s political elite just to surrender quietly the moment things became difficult.

If this ends tonight, it ends with me fighting to get back to Aleksandr.

My hand reaches for the handle. The metal is freezing against my palm. My jaw tightens when I try to twist it, putting more strength behind it than I normally would. The mechanism resists stubbornly, rusted and stiff from years of disuse. The cold doesn’t help either, the metal contracting just enough to make everything harder to move.

“Come on…” I mutter under my breath.

Finally, with a reluctant click, the latch gives. But the door still doesn’t move. Years of neglect have warped the wood inside theframe. I grab the handle with both hands and lean my weight back, yanking hard. The door groans in protest, shifting only a fraction of an inch.

Dust rains down on me from the top of the frame.

I pull again and again. Each movement makes the hinges shriek softly, the sound grating through the quiet basement like a warning bell. My heart climbs into my throat as I glance once over my shoulder toward the stairs, thankfully finding no shadows pursuing me.

I brace one bare foot against the concrete wall and yank with everything I have.

The door suddenly gives.

It tears free from the frame with a violent jerk that sends me stumbling backward. My arms windmill instinctively as I struggle to catch my balance before I land on my ass. I manage to latch onto one of the shelves nearby, using it to straighten me again.

Once I’ve steadied myself, I let out a quiet huff of breath and turn back toward the open doorway?—

And freeze.

A man I don’t recognize stands just outside it. Half his face is swallowed by shadow from the darkness beyond the tunnel’s entrance.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same black tactical gear as the others upstairs. Except there’s no balaclava hiding his face. Nothing concealing the sharp, dangerous lines of his features. His eyes are black, not the soft brown-black of mostpeople, but something darker. Something that seems to swallow the weak light spilling from the basement bulbs behind me.

Black ink crawls up one side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket in intricate lines that twist like living things.

A gun rests casually in his hand, the barrel already pointed straight at me. His finger sits comfortably on the trigger. In his other is a flashlight, his thumb moving to click it off.

My heart stutters violently in my chest.

For a moment neither of us moves.

He blinks once. Then a slow, amused smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Well. This is convenient.”