The Black SUV came to a halt with a low growl, and Ray stepped out, his heavy boots hitting the ground with purpose. Every step was deliberate, stomping with barely restrained fury. His face was twisted in anger, and if Elizabeth had been in his sights, he wouldn't have hesitated to strangle her on the spot.
He approached the house, his imposing frame filling the doorway as he stepped inside. The air was still, but what caught his attention immediately was the small tracker lying discarded on the floor. His jaw tightened. Her footsteps were faint but visible because of her blood she had stepped on, leading toward the back door. She had escaped.
With a sharp wave of his hand, he signaled the men who had followed him in. "Search the house," he uttered, his voice low and commanding.
The men quickly fanned out, tearing through the small space, but it was clear she was gone. Ray strode to the back door, glancing out into the night.
"She shouldn't have gotten far," he growled, turning to the others. "Search the area!"
At his command, several men bolted out the back door, disappearing into the darkness as they chased after Elizabeth. Ray lingered, his fists clenched. She wouldn't get away…not from him.
Ray climbed the creaking stairs, his heavy boots echoing through the house. The other men moved through the lower rooms, their voices muffled in the distance. He pushed open the door to a small, dusty bedroom and stepped inside, it was Elizabeth and her sister's room. His sharp eyes scanning the space.
The room reeked of neglect, and the thick layer of dust coating every surface made his nose twitch with disgust. He was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye, a faint outline beneath the bed. A trapdoor.
His lips curled into a smirk as he stepped closer, shoving the bed aside with a grunt. The old frame screeched against the floor, revealing the trapdoor fully. He crouched down, running his gloved fingers along the edges. It was locked, but that wouldn't stop him.
"Not so clever, are you, Lizzy?" he muttered to himself, his smirk widening.
Standing upright, he turned and shouted down the hall. "Get in here! Bring something to break this open."
Moments later, a few men hurried into the room, carrying tools. Ray stood back, his arms crossed, watching with cold satisfaction as they set to work on the trapdoor. Elizabeth's little tricks wouldn't be enough to escape him.
As the men hammered away at the trapdoor, Ray found himself momentarily distracted. The rhythmic pounding of metal against wood sent flashes of unwelcome memories through his mind. He stood still, his hands clenching into fists as questions gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
Was it really just the money he was after? After all this, after Gunthers death, was that pile of cash truly worth the miles he had gone and the blood he was about to spill? The thought unsettled him.
Then it dawned on him, the person he hated most at the moment. Elizabeth. She had killed Gunther, his master, the only man who had ever given him a chance, who saw something in him beyond the fury and chaos.
His jaw tightened as the past clawed its way back to him. He remembered the first time Gunther found him, a broken, desperate young man with nowhere to go. Gunther had taken him in, given him purpose, and shaped him into the weapon he was now. It wasn't kindness; it was control. But it had been better than the void he had lived in before.
The hammering grew louder, snapping him back to the present. He shook his head, pushing the memories aside. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past. Not now. He needed to focus, to finish what Gunther would have wanted.
"She's not getting away," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the men. Whatever was driving him, it wasn't just money. It was loyalty, twisted misplaced loyalty to the man who had made him who he was.
The trapdoor finally gave way with a sharp crack, revealing its hidden contents. Inside was the bag stuffed with cash and a small collection of items and tokens of Elizabeth's past. Old trinkets, faded photographs, and scraps of memories she had clung to over the years.
Ray crouched down, his piercing eyes scanning the contents. His expression darkened as his hand grazed over a photo, pulling it from the box. It was a picture of Elizabeth and her sister, their faces lit with joy from a time long before their lives were shattered. He stared at it for a moment, his lips curling into a sinister smirk.
"So, she has a sister," he muttered under his breath, the gears in his mind turning. This wasn't just about the money anymore. It was about revenge. Years of dealing with Elizabeth's defiance, her insolence, and the fact he could never lay a hand on her because of Gunther, it all burned inside him. But now? Now, he had the freedom to act.
He slid the photo into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it as if sealing a promise to himself. Taking something precious from Elizabeth would be the ultimate retribution just as she took his master away from him.
Without another glance, he straightened up and signaled to his men. "Take the cash," he ordered coldly.
As the men hauled the bag out, Ray stood silently, staring down at the remnants of Elizabeth's past. The smirk on his face faded into something darker. This was no longer about orders or loyalty to a dead man. This was personal.
Elizabeth's eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim, warm light that filled the room. She found herself lying on a small bed, its springy foam creaking slightly as she shifted. The air was tinged with the faint scent of wood smoke. Sitting up, she winced as a sharp ache pulsed in her head, trying to piece together what had happened.
The last thing she remembered was running and then darkness.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and cautiously stood, her worn out shoes touching the cool, uneven floor. Steadying herself, she crept toward the doorway and into the sitting room. There, the elderly man sat in a wooden rocking chair, his movements slow and rhythmic as he watched the fire crackle in the stone chimney.
"Thank you," Elizabeth said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man turned his head slightly, surprised but calm. "Oh, you're awake," he said, standing with a gentle groan. "Sit, sit. I'll get you some hot cocoa," he offered, gesturing toward a worn armchair.
"No, thank you," Elizabeth replied, shaking her head. "I'll be on my way."
The man tilted his head, studying her with quiet concern. "And where are you headed, my dear?"
Elizabeth hesitated, avoiding his gaze.
The man sighed, stepping closer. "Some men came by earlier," he said, his tone heavier. "They were looking for a girl….asked if I'd seen anyone run through here."
Elizabeth stiffened, her heart sinking.
"Their presence was… intimidating," the man continued, his voice laced with caution. "I couldn't help but wonder what you might've done to make them come after you like that." His eyes were kind, but his words carried a pointed curiosity, inviting her to explain.
Elizabeth stayed quiet, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn't trust anyone, not yet but the weight of his words and the danger that followed her felt impossible to ignore.
"Thanks for your concern, but I'll be leaving," Elizabeth said calmly, her voice was steady. She didn't want to feel emotional, and she definitely didn't want to open up to a stranger. She turned toward the door, her hand reaching for the knob.
"Those men are still out there," the old man said, his voice firm but not unkind. "If you step out now… it will be the end of you."
Elizabeth froze, her fingers hovering over the knob.
"I had a daughter like you once," the man continued, his tone softening. "Young, fierce, beautiful… and just as stubborn." A faint, wistful smile tugged at his lips.
Elizabeth turned slightly, her gaze fixed on the door.
"Let me help you," he said gently, his voice full of quiet sincerity. "In any way I can."
"You can't help me," Elizabeth replied, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to suppress the storm of emotions rising within her. Anger, fear, and exhaustion swirled together, threatening to consume her.
The man tilted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"How do you think you can help me?" Elizabeth said slowly, her tone edged with skepticism as she finally turned to face him.
The old man didn't falter. Instead, he gave her a warm, reassuring smile, sensing that he had started to chip away at her walls.
"I can start by giving you a hot cocoa," he said, his voice light yet inviting. "It's been a long, cold night for you, I can tell. Sit down, my dear."
Without waiting for her response, he headed to the kitchen, the sound of cupboards opening and water boiling filling the silence between them. For the first time in what felt like forever, Elizabeth felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. Not trust, not yet, but the faintest whisper of safety.