Page 80 of His Contract Queen

Shit.

I dive sideways without thinking, slipping behind a pocket doorway that leads into one of the old, unused sitting rooms. My back presses against the wall until I’m practically flat inside the narrow space.

The men rush past without noticing me, their boots thunderous across the floor, their radios crackling.

For a moment I simply stand there, breathing hard.

Think.

Think.

Then the answer hits me. The underground tunnel. The one I told Aleksandr about.

My teeth gnaw hard at the inside of my cheek as distant sounds of fighting echo somewhere deeper in the house. It’ll be nearly impossible to get down to the basement without someone seeing me and grabbing me again. The main staircase that leads to the basement is right past the back entry where it’s no doubt crawling with men.

But… I have to try.

Once I’m inside the tunnel, I’ll have a clear shot at getting out of here. Even the FSB won’t know where I’ve gone. Not unless they’ve done far more research than I think they have. Judging by how quickly they descended on the house after the gala, I doubt they’ve had time to dig through decades-old property archives looking for forgotten blueprints. Not with thebureaucratic nightmare it would take to approve an operation like this in the first place.

They’re moving too fast, which means they’re operating on incomplete information.

If I stall and get caught, I’ll be wasting the only advantage I have left.

Pushing away from the wall, I tilt my head just enough to peer around the corner. For a moment, I hold my breath and listen.

Nothing.

Good.

I slip out from behind the doorway and dart down the opposite direction from where I’d come, moving as quickly and quietly as I can manage. My bare feet barely make a sound against the carpet runners as I hug the walls, slipping through pools of shadow between the dim hallway lamps. My heart is still pounding hard enough to shake my body, but I force my breathing to slow.

Panicking will only get me caught.

The deeper I push into the estate, the quieter everything becomes. The shouting fades behind me, muffled by thick walls and distance until it almost feels unreal.

For a fleeting second, the quiet almost convinces me the chaos is over. That maybe they’ve decided whatever orders were given to get me isn’t worth the trouble they’re running into trying and are already on their way out.

The moment I slip through the service door into the kitchens, I stop dead in my tracks.

The room looks like a bomb went off.

Everything has been ransacked. Cabinet doors hang open at crooked angles, their contents spilled across the tile floor. Pots and pans are scattered everywhere. A tray of shattered glass glitters under the fluorescent lights like a bed of knives. The massive butcher block island has been overturned completely, its thick wooden slab lying on its side.

The only silver lining in the destruction is what isn’t here—there are no dark red stains marring the floors. No bodies. For now it seems the FSB are subduing my father’s staff with non-lethal methods.

A small mercy I didn’t think I’d be grateful for.

I glance quickly toward the back hall that leads to the cellar stairs, finding it empty. If the basement is still clear, I might actually make it to the tunnel. I step carefully through the wreckage, avoiding broken glass and the slick patches of spilled liquid on the tile floor to keep from slipping.

The old wooden door at the end of the kitchen stands exactly where it always has, the worn brass handle catching the overhead light faintly. With one last glance over my shoulder, I reach for it.

The door creaks faintly when I pull it open. I slip inside quickly and ease it shut behind me. Darkness swallows me for a moment until my eyes adjust. My hand drifts automatically to the wall beside the staircase, fingers tracing over the familiar puckered marks in the plaster as I begin to descend the worn steps. The grooves are old, scars left by decades of people carrying crates and boxes down these narrow stairs.

Cobwebs cling to the uncovered light bulbs that line the ceiling overhead. Their yellow glow flickers weakly as I pass beneath them, illuminating the dust and neglect that has settled over this forgotten part of the house.

Barely anyone comes down here anymore. Not unless a dinner party calls for extra dishware or large cooking pots to be pulled from storage. And that hasn’t happened since my mother died. The thought slips through my mind quietly as I continue downward.

By the time I reach the final step, I release a slow breath of relief I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.