The golden-threaded curtains shimmered faintly as the morning sun crept into the royal suite, a space befitting its occupant. But for Andre, none of this luxury mattered. For a while.
"Open the door! I command you" Andre bellowed, his voice reverberating. He stood before the door, fists clenched, his demeanor cracking under the weight of silence.
Silence.
Seconds stretched into eternity before frustration took over. Andre lunged at the door, slamming his shoulder into the sturdy wood. The impact sent a dull ache radiating through his arm, but the door didn't budge.
Whoever had designed this fortress of a suite had spared no expense on its fortifications.
"OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!" he roared, his voice raw. He slammed his fist against the unyielding surface. "Open it right now, or you'll only find my dead—"
A whisper, sharp and icy, cut through his tirade. "Silence, pretty boy, or you'll hurt your throat."
Andre froze as the unmistakable press of cold steel grazed his neck. The blade's edge was so close. A tiny movement and It'd be over for him.
"Who are—" Andre began, but the stranger cut him off.
"Don't move, princeling," she hissed, her voice low. "Have you ever been kidnapped before?"
Andre's breath hitched, his mind racing. He tried to steady his voice. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"
"Again with the typical questions," she said with a dry tone. "That's the best you've got, princeling? You royals are so predictable. Let's just say I'm good at what I do. But if you're thinking of running, let me save you the trouble. One wrong move, and I'll paint these pretty walls with your royal blood."
The dagger's jeweled hilt caught the light as Andre's gaze flickered to it. It was an exquisite weapon, more art than tool. How ironic, he thought, to meet his end at something so beautiful.
He forced himself to focus, his tone calm despite the storm brewing inside. "You're making a mistake. I'm the legitimate heir to the throne—the sole heir. Whatever you're after, this won't end well for you."
Her grip on the dagger tightened, the blade pressing closer. "Shut up, princeling," she spat. "Your throne means nothing to me."
Andre's eyes narrowed. Slowly, imperceptibly, he shifted his weight, testing her balance. His voice dropped, steady and deliberate. "You think this ends well for you?"
And then he moved. With a sudden twist, Andre grabbed her wrist with both hands, forcing the dagger away from his throat. The blade wavered, but she fought back, her strength surprising. Andre shifted his stance, using his momentum to throw her off balance. They crashed to the floor, a tangle of limbs, the dagger skidding across the marble and out of reach.
Both scrambled for the weapon, but Andre was faster. He pinned her wrist to the ground, his weight bearing down on her. Their eyes met, hers blazing with fury behind the black mask that obscured her face. Her hair, wild and tangled, framed a visage of calculated determination. She wore a vinyl shirt and leather pants, her arms strapped with bullet casings, a holster on her thigh where the dagger had rested moments ago.
Andre tightened his grip on her wrist, his free hand reaching for the mask. But before he could rip it off, she twisted beneath him, her movements sharp and precise. With a burst of strength and agility, she flipped him over, his body slamming against the cold floor.
Before Andre could recover, she was on him. Her knee pressed into his chest, her movements fluid as she pulled a zip tie from her pocket. In seconds, his wrists were bound. He struggled against the restraint, but she was quicker, smarter.
From another pocket, she produced a tiny glass vial. Popping the cork with practiced ease, she forced the contents into a syringe and injected him. He thrashed, his head shaking side to side, but it was futile. The bitter liquid already in his blood.
Andre's vision blurred almost instantly. The room tilted, the golden-threaded curtains and shimmering windows melting into a haze. His body grew heavy, his muscles slackening as a strange calm overtook him.
Through the fog, he heard her voice, soft and mocking. "Sweet dreams, prince."
Darkness claimed him.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
"The princeling sure has some combat skills," Red thought to herself, tightening the ropes around Andre. Her bejeweled dagger rested in its padded case on her thigh, within easy reach.
She pulled the ropes taut, ensuring he wouldn't be able to escape. Next, she grabbed a roll of duct tape, pulling off a strip to seal his mouth shut.
Movement. Done.
Bratty mouth. Done.
Eyes. Not done.
Red ticked off the mental list, scanning the room for a scrap of cloth to blindfold him. It was strange—human psychology at play. Cut off all other senses, and the remaining one becomes sharper. Is it survival instinct?
Frustration gnawed at her as she couldn't find any cloth. She cursed under her breath, pulling out her dagger to tear a corner off the bed sheet. The fabric ripped easily, and she began tightly knotting it around Andre's head.
All done.
Hours passed, and the effects of the drug still hadn't worn off. Red's suspicion grew—this wasn't normal. The drug usually wore off in an hour, but Andre was still out cold.
Wait.
Is he dead?
No no. That's ridiculous.
He can't.
Red thought, a cold shiver running down her spine. She quickly rushed over, jumping to the center of the room where Andre was tied.
Her hands searched frantically at his wrists. Too tight. Her heart raced. She moved to check his breathing.
She dragged him to his bed laying him down trying to control the panic.
Breathe.
Please, breathe.
A moment of unbearable silence. Red's fingers hovered over his chest. Her gaze locked onto his still body, and then—finally—a slow, steady breath escaped his lips.
Relief.
But the calm was short-lived. Red's hands fell to the vial in her pocket she had used, the one she hadn't bothered to check closely before. Empty. She turned it in her hands, inspecting the yellowish residue inside. Yellow?
Isn't propofol supposed to be milky white?
The realization slammed into her like a freight train. She had mistakenly injected Midazolam and Pancuronium Bromide—a combo that would knock him out for longer, far longer than she had intended.
Her pulse quickened. His vitals were low—his breathing was erratic and faint. Shit.
The assassin in her immediately went to work, her thoughts racing, trying to think of what she could do to save him.
What if he's already too far gone? The idea of losing him because of her cockiness was unbearable.
I can't let him die. Not like this.
Red frantically tore through her bag, hoping she had something that could reverse the effects.
What have I done?
She didn't have time for self-recrimination. Her hands shook as she pulled out atropine, hoping it would give him a temporary boost, just enough to keep him alive until more help arrived.
With trembling fingers, she rushed to Andre's side, her mind buzzing with fear. His breathing had slowed to an almost imperceptible rate. She had to act now.
CPR. 1, 2, 3...
She pressed her hands to his chest. 1, 2, 3. His chest barely moved under her palms, but she didn't stop. Tears blurred her vision as she continued. 1, 2, 3.
Red's hand was trembling as she gripped the needle. No time left. No time at all.
She quickly assessed his neck. The jugular vein was right there—easy access, but a dangerous place to work. One slip-up, and it's over. But this was no time to hesitate.
She pressed the needle against the vein, bypassing the carotid artery. The thick, cold fluid from the atropine vial surged into his bloodstream. Red held her breath, hoping it would do enough to counteract the paralytics.
Seconds passed, but there was no sign of improvement. His pulse was still too slow, too weak.
Is it too late?
A small gasp filled the room, a faint inhale as his lungs fought to draw in air. Red quickly propped him up on a pillow, keeping his head tilted just right. He was still unconscious. He was breathing—barely, but breathing.
She reached for her bag again, grabbing her phone. Her hands fumbled with the buttons as she dialed Lincoln. "Send immediate help. Now."
Red gripped her dagger, fingers twitching. What if he doesn't wake up?
She couldn't undo what she'd done. But she could make sure he didn't die because of it.