Chapter 2 - The Suture and the SecretThe massive front door locked with a heavy electronic click.
The woman spun around, pressing her back against the thick oak, the pocketknife still raised defensively, though her knees were trembling so violently she could barely stand. "Don't come near me," she breathed, her voice raspy, laced with raw terror and three months of absolute paranoia. "I mean it. I'll cut you."
Conrad didn't flinch. He walked past her toward a marble-topped sideboard, ignoring the blade entirely. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler—not for her, but for himself—then stopped, turning back to look at her.
"If I wanted you dead, Salvatore would still be standing on the porch," Conrad said evenly. "Lower the knife. You're bleeding onto my Persian rug."
She looked down. A dark pool of crimson was spreading from a deep, jagged gash on her left shoulder, soaking through the ruined fabric of her jacket. The adrenaline that had kept her alive through the forest was finally burning out, replaced by a cold, numbing shock.
Her eyes rolled back. The pocketknife slipped from her fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor just as her knees buckled.
She didn't hit the floor.
Conrad moved with startling speed for a man of his size, catching her waist before she could collapse. Her body felt impossibly light, skin burning with a high fever. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms, carrying her deeper into the sprawling, dimly lit manor.
"Brutus, stay," he commanded. The mastiff dropped heavily to the floor by the foyer, eyes fixed on the hallway.
Ten minutes later, the woman regained consciousness to the sharp, stinging burn of antiseptic. She was lying on a plush leather sofa in a private, book-lined study. A warm fireplace crackled a few feet away, casting dancing golden shadows across the mahogany bookshelves.
Conrad sat on a leather armchair beside her, holding a medical kit. He was carefully stitching the deep laceration on her shoulder with steady, practiced hands.
She gasped, instinctively trying to pull away, but his large, calloused hand gripped her upper arm gently yet immovably. "Hold still unless you want an infection to finish what Salvatore started."
"Who... who are you?" she whispered, her teeth chattering despite the roaring fire.
"Conrad Ashford," he replied, snipping the surgical thread with a pair of metal scissors and applying a sterile bandage. "And you are currently trespassing in a house that the local police are terrified to spell out loud. What's your name?"
May you like
She hesitated, her eyes darting to the window as if expecting a window to shatter at any second. "Elena," she whispered. "Elena Vance."
"Well, Elena Vance," Conrad said, leaning back and pouring a clean glass of water, handing it to her. "You have the entire Costa Syndicate, local law enforcement, and half the federal government hunting you through the woods. You smell like gunpowder, panic, and rainwater. Start talking."
