Page 111 of Breaking Rosalind
FORTY-THREE
ROSALIND
A sharp kick in the ribs jolts me out of unconsciousness. Each breath feels like razor blades tearing through one side of my chest, and I wonder if I’ve cracked a rib. I force myself to stay still, even as my heart thrashes against its cage like a trapped animal.
Did Britt escape?
Last thing I remember, she’d opened the hatch. She wouldn’t want to leave without me, but she also wouldn’t let herself get caught. I shot Cesare in the chest, giving her the opening she needed to jump into the chute.
I crack open an eye and peer through my lashes, finding myself lying on the floor of a room crammed with men and women stripped down to their underwear.
Eight guards stand around us holding automatic weapons, and I shiver. This is a peculiar change to waking up alone in Cesare’s dungeon, but not unwelcome.
A large hand lands in my hair and pulls me up to sit. “Get up.”
The bastard manhandling me is a stranger with malevolent green eyes and a scar down his cheek. I’m sure he’s one of the men I saw a few days ago at the gates, but it doesn’t matter. Even though my ankles, arms, and wrists are bound with zip-ties, I have full use of my fingers.
All I need is a distraction, and I’ll get the fuck out.
Feigning wooziness, I let my eyes roll in their sockets and scan the room for exits. There’s a door on the right, which possibly leads to a hallway, but reaching it means taking out the guards. Behind me is a window secured with iron bars.
This is the downstairs storeroom. I recognize it from the time I walked around the Montesano mansion, capturing footage for Gunther.
“Is she awake?” asks a man I don’t recognize.
“Does it matter?” the one holding me upright asks back.
They both snicker.
My jaw clenches, and I wonder what the hell happened between that barrel falling on my head and now. The man releases my hair, and I fall back to the stone floor with a grunt.
I use my ruse of helplessness to scan my body for injuries. The pain in my ribs has already faded, giving me a clue there probably isn’t a fracture.
“Leave her alone,” says a female voice hoarse with tears.
“Friend of yours?” a male voice asks with a sneer.
“No, but there’s no need to kick a helpless woman.”
The man chuckles. “This bitch is an assassin. People like her are the reason you’re all being held in this room.”
The woman defending me falls quiet.
He returns, and all the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The air shifts as he pulls back his leg for another kick.
“Wait,” I rasp. “I’m awake.”
“Thought so.” He steps back, allowing me to shuffle up to sitting.
Blinking away the remnants of my headache, I take a better look at my fellow captives sitting on the floor, recognizing at least four other operatives from the Moirai. None of them makes eye contact, and none of them are Britt.
That has to be a good sign.
“Are you alright?” asks a bleached blonde, whose pink bra strains under her augmented breasts. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara-blackened tears.
“Yeah.” My brows furrow. “Why are we all here?”
“You should know.” The man grabs the hood of my catsuit. “Everyone in this room either came to the boss’s party without ID, or the name they gave doesn’t check out. Point out the assassins, and we’ll let the innocent people go home.”