I exhaled slowly, grounding myself. Alright, Selene. Two daggers. One phone. Enough. Lily could track me when I got out of here and called her.
My brain was still sluggish, the remnants of whatever drug they’d used dragging me down. I forced myself to think through the fog, my mind circling back to one thing.
Sugarplum.
That man—the Russian—had called me by my father’s nickname.
What kind of moron hands over personal information to be used in a kidnapping?
Someone who thinks they’ll get away with it.
I almost laughed. Almost. But I had a feeling it’d feel like coughing up sandpaper.
I shifted, repositioning myself so I could reach my dagger. The ejector would work.
But there was a risk—the angle wasn’t great, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d drive the blade straight through my own damn hand.
I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulders back. A little blood was better than waiting around in this hellhole.
I took a deep breath.
Then I made my move.
The blade shot out of my forearm sheath with a sharp click, biting into the rope binding my wrists. Too much force. The tip sliced into the side of my hand, but I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting. Blood smeared against my palm as I sawed the rope holding my wrists against the blade, the tension on the rope loosening just enough for me to yank free.
Then a scream.
Female. Pained. Desperate.
I wasn’t alone.
I wiped my bleeding hand against my pants and reached for my forearms, pressing the quick-release trigger on my other sheath.
My second dagger slid free, holding one in each hand their cold steel a comforting weight. No gun, no backup. Just me, two blades, and the element of surprise.
I crouched, pressing my ear against the rotting wooden door. Muffled voices as a door closes. At least three. Heavy-footed. Armed, most likely. They won’t be expecting me to be loose yet.
I flipped the blades into a reverse grip, took a steadying breath, then stepped back. One chance. I drove my heel hard into the weak spot near the handle. The wood splintered with a crack, the door swinging open as I lunged forward.
The first man barely had time to register what was happening before I sliced my right dagger clean across his throat. A wet gurgle filled the air as his body slumped.
Two more.
The second man reacted fast, raising his gun. I grabbed the dying man’s weight and shoved him into the shooter, throwing off his aim. The gun fired, the sound deafening in the tight space.
I felt pure fire.
The searing pain tearing through my shoulder, the bullet punching clean through. My vision wavered, but I forced myself to stay upright, swallowing the scream trying to claw its way out. Not now.
I twisted, still holding my daggers, and drove one deep into the shooter’s gut. His breath hitched, his body stiffening in shock.
I yanked the blade up tearing through his insides before spinning behind him and slicing my second dagger across his throat.
One left.
The last man was already moving, coming at me with brutal speed. He knocked one of my daggers from my hand with a sharp strike to my wrist, the blade clattering against the floor. His fist connected with my ribs solid. Pain burst through my side, but I rolled with the hit, absorbing just enough to keep my momentum.
He grabbed my jacket, using his weight to slam me against the wall.Hard.
