Pampered By The Assassin Family

Ava's eyes snapped open.

The harsh, chemical stench of bleach flooded her nostrils. She gasped, her small chest heaving as her lungs fought to process oxygen.

She looked down at her hands. They were tiny. The skin was pale, dotted with faded, thin scratches that belonged to an eight-year-old child.

The memory of freezing pool water rushing into her throat hit her. Christin's mocking laughter echoed in her skull. Ava clamped her hands over her ears, her fingers trembling so violently she could barely feel her own skin.

A low, heavy rumble vibrated through the thin walls of the infirmary.

Ava threw off the scratchy blanket. Her bare feet hit the freezing linoleum floor. Her knees shook, but she forced herself to walk toward the window, her breath fogging the glass.

Through the gaps in the cheap plastic blinds, she saw them. Three black Cadillac Escalades rolled to a slow, menacing stop outside the foster center's main gate.

On the license plate frame of the lead vehicle, the silver lion and shield gleamed. The Savage family crest.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Ava's neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs, beating so fast it made her vision blur. Her pupils constricted into tiny pinpricks.

Out in the hallway, the sharp clack of high heels echoed. It was Eleanor, the center's director, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness as she greeted the arrivals. Heavy, synchronized footsteps followed her. They were getting closer.

Ava's brain screamed. She could not go back to that hell. She would rather die right here than return to the Savage family.

She spun around, grabbed a frayed denim jacket off the back of a chair, and shoved the infirmary's rear door open.

The back hallway was dim, illuminated only by flickering fluorescent bulbs. Ava pressed her back against the peeling wallpaper and ran. She moved like a terrified animal, her bare feet slapping softly against the floorboards.

She rounded the corner too fast.

A tall figure in a baggy jacket stepped out from the intersecting corridor.

Ava couldn't stop. She slammed hard into a broad chest that smelled faintly of motor oil and stale coffee.

The impact knocked the wind out of her. She stumbled backward, her arms flailing as gravity pulled her toward the hard floor.

Before she could fall, a large hand shot out, clumsily grabbing the back of her collar. The movement was a frantic, desperate lunge of a startled bystander, but the large, rough fingers managed to snag the fabric just in time, yanking her upright with an awkward jerk.

Ava looked up. She saw a man with a thick, unkempt beard and heavy black-rimmed glasses. His eyes looked tired, almost dull behind the thick lenses.

She scanned him in a fraction of a second. A cheap flannel shirt. Frayed, faded jeans. He looked like a nobody. A bottom-tier, struggling suburban dad.

The static hiss of a bodyguard's earpiece echoed from the other end of the hall. The heavy footsteps were turning the corner.

Panic seized Ava's throat. She grabbed the hem of the man's flannel shirt, her knuckles turning stark white.

"Please," Ava whispered, her voice cracking with raw, desperate tears. "Take me with you. Please."

Jerimiah blinked. He looked down at the tiny, shivering girl gripping his shirt. His thick eyebrows pulled together in mild confusion.

The static from the radio grew louder. Ava's entire body convulsed with a violent shudder.

Jerimiah saw the absolute, primal terror in the little girl's eyes. Behind his thick glasses, his dull gaze widened in alarm, holding the expression of a completely ordinary man caught off guard.

He shifted his weight. With a fluid, silent step, he turned his broad shoulders, completely enveloping Ava in the shadow of his large frame.

Three men in tailored black suits walked briskly past the intersection behind them. They didn't even turn their heads.

Ava held her breath until her lungs burned. Once the sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor, her knees buckled.

Jerimiah let out a long, heavy sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled, slightly gray handkerchief, handing it to her.

He scratched the back of his neck, thinking of his wife, Carrie. She had been complaining for months about wanting a daughter.

"Come with me, kid," Jerimiah said, his voice a lazy, low drawl. He turned and started walking toward the director's office.