BLOOD IN SILK

The first thing Alina felt was the cold.

It wasn't the kind of cold that made you shiver — it was the kind that settled into your bones, like it belonged there. Her head throbbed in slow pulses, and her skin prickled against the stone floor. Something soft brushed her wrists. Silk.

She opened her eyes.

The room was dimly lit, windowless. The walls were bare concrete. No clocks, no sound, no signs of life. Her mouth was dry, her body sluggish — sedative, maybe. But her mind was already racing.

Where was she?

No, she knew better than to ask that. The better question was who had taken her — and why wasn't she dead?

Because that was the plan. It had to be. Her father's enemies weren't the type to issue warnings. If someone had found out what she was doing — digging, documenting, saving passwords and names — they wouldn't drag her somewhere to talk about it. They'd kill her quietly and blame it on drugs, a car crash, a suicide note someone else typed.

But she was still breathing.

Her eyes scanned the shadows. There was a camera high in the corner, blinking. Her wrists burned where silk rope had held her — expensive, but not gentle.

Footsteps echoed behind the heavy steel door.

Slow. Unhurried.

Then it opened — and he stepped in.

Tall. Dark suit. Black gloves. His face was hard angles, his hair dark and neat. But it was his eyes that stopped her.

They were unreadable. Pale grey, like ash — like a fire long burned out.

He didn't speak right away. Just looked at her. Like he was trying to decide if she was real.

"You're awake," he said finally. His voice was low, steady.

She sat up slowly, ignoring the way her limbs protested. "Congratulations. Drugging a girl unconscious must be a proud moment for you."

He tilted his head, not reacting. "I wasn't planning on this."

"Oh, I'm sure you weren't. So, what is this? Ransom? Revenge? Do you even know who I am?"

"I do."

"Then you know my father will bury you alive."

There was a flicker in his expression — so small, most people wouldn't have noticed it. But Alina was trained to notice things.

"No," he said quietly. "He won't."

Something tightened in her stomach.

She rose to her feet, wobbling slightly. The man didn't move — not to help, not to stop her. Just watched.

"You were supposed to kill me," she said, watching his face. "Weren't you?"

He didn't deny it.

"What changed?" she asked.

He took a step closer. She held her ground.

"You don't remember," he murmured. "But I do."

Her breath caught.

"What are you talking about?"

He looked at her like she was a riddle he almost understood. "You wore red that night. Under the lights. You smiled at me."

Alina froze.

The gala. Five years ago. The fundraiser her father forced her to attend. She'd been fifteen. Bored. Alone. Standing under fairy lights, trying to disappear into the crowd.

There'd been a man. Watching her from the shadows.

No. Not a man. A boy — maybe twenty — with cold eyes and blood on his knuckles. He hadn't said a word.

He had just stared.

That smile… had meant nothing. Or at least, it was supposed to.

Her voice came out hoarse. "You remember me from that?"

"I never forgot," he said.

They stared at each other, the silence stretching sharp between them.

Finally, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Cassian," he said. "Cassian Vale."

Her blood ran cold.

She knew that name. Everyone in the shadows did. The Vale Syndicate. Her father's allies — and enemies when it suited them.

"You work for him?" she whispered.

"I was sent to kill you," he said. "That's still the official order."

"Then why am I still here?"

Cassian stepped forward, stopping just close enough for her to feel his presence like a storm. "Because I don't know yet," he said. "But I'm not done deciding."

And then he turned and walked out, leaving Alina in the silence once more — alone, but no longer unobserved.