Chapter 4 Fire And Restraint

• Nina quietly observed him as he went to the coffee table and took the tray of untouched food.
• Tall. Broad. His boots were heavy on the wooden floorboards, but his movements were measured, deliberate. He didn’t slouch or fidget; he didn’t need to. His very presence filled the room with tension.
• His eyes struck her first: cold, blue, steel-blue, unreadable. They didn’t leer or wander like the others. They just looked sharp enough to slice through the silence, and for a terrifying heartbeat, she felt stripped bare under them.
• His jaw was strong, his face unexpectedly unscarred, save for two on either temple. He wasn’t the kind of handsome that softened hearts; he was the kind of handsome that warned you away.
• Nina’s stomach twisted. Something about him screamed danger, but not the reckless, sloppy danger of Horace’s other men. This one was disciplined. He was the kind of man who could kill without raising his voice… and without hesitation.
• And yet, when she glanced again, just briefly, there was something in his silence that unsettled her more than his strength. It wasn’t cruelty. It was… restraint. As though he carried a war inside, one he refused to let spill into his eyes.
• Nina didn’t know which terrified her more: that he might hurt her… or that he might not. Either way, her intent remained unchanged.
• He left with the tray and returned with another tray, a bottle of water, and a small bowl of stew this time. She wasn’t what he expected. Horace had described her as “the girl,” like she were some burden to be kept alive until she could be handed over. Darren had half-expected someone broken, unremarkable, already defeated by fear.
• But when the steel door creaked and his eyes found hers, he saw fire.
• She was sitting on the edge of the cot, her chin lifted, her gaze sharp as if daring him to say the wrong word. There was defiance where there should have been despair.
• Her hair, brown and unruly, framed her face in a way that made the plaster look less like weakness and more like a badge. Her eyes, green and restless, caught him off guard. They weren’t pleading like so many he’d seen before. They were searching. Testing him.
• Darren felt something stir he hadn’t in years: the faint, dangerous flicker of recognition.
• This girl wasn’t a captive in spirit. She was a fighter, just like he once had been, before Horace shackled him to blood and silence.
• And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.
• He tore his gaze away before she could read too much in his face, before she could see that for a moment, her fire had touched something buried deep in his chest.
• He reminded himself why he was here: guard her, obey Horace, nothing more. But as her eyes lingered on him, unflinching, Darren knew this assignment would be nothing like the others.
• This girl was trouble. And unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if he meant that as a warning… or a promise.
• Nina waited in calm. The moment he stepped within reach, she surged off the cot. She kicked out hard, and the tray flew from his hands. The bowl skittered to the floor, broth splattering across the wood. The bottle of water thudded, the cap burst open, and water spilled in a dark puddle.
• Before he could recover, she lunged at him, shoulder-first. The impact jarred through her body, but he barely staggered. She grabbed for his knife… any weapon on him. As her fingers brushed against the hilt, his hand closed around her wrist like an iron cuff.
• In one motion, he twisted, forcing her back against the wall. The air rushed from her lungs. His grip was strong, unyielding, but not cruel; he wasn’t crushing her bones, just holding her there, pinning her with effortless strength.
• Nina’s chest heaved. She spat words into his face, her voice raw, filled with rage, “Go on, kill me! Do it like you did to them. Isn’t that the only thing you’re good at, murderer? Important jobs, huh? Or are you a coward?”
• Without saying a word, teeth clenched, fierce look in his eyes, he grabbed his pistol from the holster and pointed it under her chin, finger tight on the trigger.
• Nina gasped.
• She shut her eyes tight, waiting for it. But when nothing happened after a few seconds, she opened her eyes slowly to meet his darkened eyes. She didn’t care.
• “Do it. Please.” Her voice was low with despair, but still sharp-edged. “There is nothing I’m living for. Not after you’ve destroyed my world.”
• Then, she saw something flicker across his expression — not anger, but something heavier.
• Silence. Then, stretched.
• He slowly withdrew the pistol into the holster without releasing her.
• “Why? Tell me why?” her voice still low.
• Another silence.
• She tried to free herself, but she barely moved. She lowered her head as tears clouded up in her eyes; she didn’t want him to see.
• He released her, seeing she had yielded.
• She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.
• He bent, picked up the overturned tray with calm precision, and set it back on the table, salvaging what he could. His movements were controlled; deliberate, as if her rebellion hadn’t rattled him at all. But Nina had seen the flicker, the hesitation.
• At the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. He really hated this job. “Babysitting” captives, as they nicknamed it. Let alone a stubborn one like this. In fact, if this girl was going to give him a headache, he would just kill her and abduct another girl for Horace. He was not ready to take any nonsense from anybody.
• When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, but a little bit soft.
• “I’m Darren. If you cooperate, perhaps we will both have a smooth stay and get this done with in one piece. Secondly, wasting food is not an option here.”
• The door clanged shut behind him.
• Nina slid down the wall, her breath uneven, heart pounding. Her attack had failed, but it hadn’t been meaningless. Because now she knew: somewhere inside this stone in human flesh, emotions stooped. And that was something to make use of.
• ***********************
• Same night. The black Mercedes glided through the city streets after emerging from the woods, its tinted windows shutting out the hum of traffic and neon lights. Horace sat in the back seat, a glass of scotch cradled in one hand, his gaze fixed on the blur of passing skyscrapers.
• He wore a calm, almost satisfied expression, like a man heading to a gala not in mourning, but in triumph. Two other black cars, one ahead and one behind, in convoy, carried his men, his guards, all heading to the gala.
• His phone buzzed. He answered without looking at the screen.