Page 67 of Gilded in Blood

I hesitate, biting my lip. If someone is really in pain, I can’t just ignore it.

I remember when I saw him go down there before. I watched him put in the password. I memorized it without him knowing.

He’d claimed he’d been checking the basement. Said there was nothing down there.

This is ridiculous. The house isn’t haunted. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for the sounds.

I step closer to the door. My hand hovers over the keypad.

Just a quick look, I tell myself. If there’s really someone down there who needs help, I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.

A narrow staircase disappears into the darkness below, illuminated only by recessed lights tucked into the walls.

The polished concrete steps are spotless, every surface as sleek and immaculate as the rest of the building.

I hesitate before taking the first step.

The air grows cooler with every step down, wrapping around my bare arms like damp fingers. Gone is the faint scent of coffee and fresh linen from upstairs. Down here, the air is stale, carrying the unmistakable tang of metal.

It reminds me of a hospital. Or… blood.

The groaning gets louder with every step. My heart pounds harder. Every hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My pulse begins to pound against my ribs.

I should turn back. Ilya told me not to come down here. But if someone is hurt, I need to help them.

I reach the bottom. The staircase opens into a wide underground space that looks nothing like the luxurious apartment above.

The walls are smooth concrete, interrupted by heavy steel doors spaced several feet apart.

Harsh fluorescent lights cast a cold, sterile glow over everything, making the entire place feel less like part of a home and more like some hidden military facility.

A chill races down my spine. What the hell is this place?

Directly across from me, at the far end of the room, stands a single heavy steel door.

Another muffled groan drifts through it. That’s where it’s coming from.

My stomach twists as I force my feet forward. When I finally reach it, I realize it isn’t fully closed.

I hesitate for a second. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I press my hand against it, and it swings open.

The sight that greets me makes me freeze.

A man is chained in the corner of the dimly lit room, wrists and ankles bound to heavy metal rings in the wall.

He looks terrible: bruised, malnourished, clothes torn and filthy. His head lifts weakly when he hears me, eyes widening with desperate hope.

“Please,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “Help me. They’re going to kill me. Please… get me out of here.”

I step closer, heart hammering. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Who’s going to kill you?”

He tugs weakly at the chains, tears cutting through the dirt on his face. “Please… if he comes back, he’ll kill me. Help me. I’m begging you.”

A cold shiver races down my spine. Kill him?

My gaze darts around the room. The walls. The restraints. The dried blood staining the concrete beneath his feet.

There’s a table against the wall covered in tools, pliers, knives, things that look like they’re meant for pain, not repair.