Page 11 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
He nods once, hoisting her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. She immediately starts fighting again, her bound legs kicking uselessly against his chest.
I watch them disappear into the house, then make my way to the infirmary. My estate has everything I need, including a fully equipped medical room and a doctor on call twenty-four, seven. When you're in my line of work, you learn quickly that hospitals ask too many questions.
The doctor is waiting when I arrive, already laying out supplies on the sterile metal table. He's in his fifties, gray-haired and efficient, and he's patched me up more times than I can count.
"Let me see," he says without preamble.
I peel off my ruined shirt, wincing as the fabric pulls at the wound. Blood has soaked through completely, staining the expensive material beyond repair.
He examines the injury with practiced hands, his expression neutral. "Clean cut. Shallow. You're lucky."
"Lucky," I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "Right."
He cleans the wound with an antiseptic that burns worse than the initial stab, then begins stitching. I watch his hands work, the needle pulling thread through my skin with methodical precision.
“Twelve stitches."
"Keep it clean," the doc says when he's finished, applying a bandage. "Change the dressing twice a day, and no strenuous activity for at least a week."
I nod, already knowing I won't follow that last instruction. I have work to do.
By the time I make it to the interrogation room, my side is throbbing again despite the painkillers. The room is in thebasement, soundproofed and secure, with concrete walls and a single metal chair bolted to the floor and affixed to the wall. It's where I bring people who need to answer questions they don't want to answer.
Matvey is standing guard outside the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest. When he sees me, he straightens slightly.
"She's loud," he says, which for Matvey is practically a speech.
I can hear her before I even open the door. The bag has been removed from her head, but she's wearing a blindfold now, and the gag is still firmly in place. If she can't see where she is, she can't plan an escape.
I step inside and close the door behind me. The sound cuts off immediately. She goes still, her head tilting as she tries to figure out who just entered.
"Hello, Mariya," I say quietly.
She tenses at the sound of my voice, her bound hands clenching into fists.
I circle around to stand in front of her, studying her in the harsh fluorescent light. Her blonde hair is disheveled, falling in tangled waves around her shoulders. The blindfold covers her eyes, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. She's terrified, but she's trying not to show it.
Brave. Foolish, but brave.
"I'm going to remove the gag," I tell her. "If you scream, it goes back in. Understood?"
She doesn't respond, but after a moment, she gives a slight nod.
I reach forward and untie the cloth, pulling it free from her mouth. She immediately gasps for air, her lips parted, and for just a second, I find myself noticing how full they are. How the fluorescent light catches the curve of her cheekbone.
I push the thought away. She's not here for me to admire. She's here to give me answers.
"Where is your father?" I ask.
"I don't know." Her voice is hoarse from screaming, but steady.
"Where are the heirlooms he stole?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last speak to him?"
"Nine years ago."
