Page 27 of Ash Storm

Reka

Reka was in a sleepy fog when Thick Mustache came back. By the time she was fully awake, she was already out of the cell and being dragged down the corridor.

Behind her, Chloe cried out. The man dragging her friend was new—tall and strong, and much lighter in coloring than Thick Mustache and the other men they’d seen until now.

Chloe kicked him in the shin and he cried out.

“You bitch,” he hissed, giving her a push that ended up with Chloe on her knees. Reka shivered, remembering the man with the English accent she’d heard through the window.

“Careful with the merchandise,” Thick Mustache laughed.

The Englishman pulled Chloe back up to a standing position.

“You going to behave, luv?”

Thick Mustache tightened his hold around Reka’s elbow painfully.

“Come on, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

And then they were moving up the stairs. For once, Reka was glad for the man’s hold on her arm, not sure she would have made it. And it was so good to see the light again when they finally made it up the two sets of stairs to what had to be the main floor.

Reka blinked in surprise.

Am I dreaming?

The stairs led out into a sumptuous palace, the likes of which Reka had only seen in movies. The hallway they were in, wide enough for at least seven people walking side by side and decorated with beautiful marble sculptures, opened up into a series of enormous rooms. Reka glimpsed each of them as they walked by. One had heavy draperies in a royal shade of red. The next one was filled with paintings.

“What—“ She licked her dry lips and tried again. “Where—“

“Shut up,” the Englishman said.

Finally, they stopped next to a closed door. Thick Mustache knocked.

“Come in,” a deep, cultured voice replied.

Chloe and Reka were pushed inside a plus, elegant room. They stood, dumbstruck, staring at the heavy leather volumes lining the walls.

Reka had read somewhere you needed a thousand tomes to call a place a library. If so, this was a library many times over.

They could film the next Beauty and the Beast here.

A man stood from behind a heavy, ornate desk.

“Welcome to my home,” he said politely. “I am Ahmet Afsan.” His English was flawless, only a slight hitch in its cadence pointing to the fact that he wasn’t a native speaker.

Reka committed the name to memory.

Ahmet Afsan.

He waved them politely towards another area of the great room, with several armchairs and deep sofas.

As if we’re his guests.

The crazy fuck.

If she’d had anything in her stomach, Reka would have vomited on the plush rug under her feet.

As it was, she had to bite her tongue to keep the words from spilling out. As polite as he was acting, she didn’t get the feeling he’d take kindly to being referred to as a crazy fuck.