The lamb and the knife

Chapter Two: "The Lamb and the Knife"

The underground safehouse smelled like gunmetal, paper, and burnt espresso—Zephyre’s attempt at brewing coffee, which she had politely refused for the fifth time that week.

Maps were pinned across the wall. Strings of red thread connected surveillance photos and nameplates like the threads of a spiderweb spun by God himself. In the middle, circled twice in crimson ink: Valen Antonov.

“You sure about this?” Zephyre asked, arms crossed, face unreadable. “Going in as his assistant?”

“It gets me close,” she replied, sliding a thumb drive across the table. “His company just lost their PR head. I applied last week under the alias. Credentials are perfect. They already scheduled an interview.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“I am fire.”

Her voice was soft. Deadly calm.

Zephyre’s eyes narrowed. “And if he recognizes you?”

“He won’t. Not as Sabrina Petrova. And definitely not as Sophia Ivanova.”

A pause. Then, with the faintest flicker of concern, “If he’s innocent—”

“I kill the doubt before it kills someone else.”

Silence hung for a beat. Then Zephyre spoke, voice low. “You’re different when it’s personal.”

Sabrina met his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“It’s always been personal.”

She turned toward the mirror, adjusting the delicate silver crucifix around her neck—the one her sister used to wear. Now, it was more than a symbol of faith. It was her anchor. Her reminder.

One week. One interview. One man.

She would walk into the lion’s den with a smile, and if God didn’t show up?

She’d be His wrath.

Zephyre didn’t flinch, but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of something old—burned and buried.

Sabrina caught it. She always did.

“You still think I’m going to end up like them?” she asked quietly.

He looked away, jaw flexing. “I think you’re already halfway there.”

There was no venom in his voice. Just knowledge. The kind that came from surviving monsters and knowing you still carried their shadows.

Zephyre had grown up a child no one wanted to touch. His parents were infamous—two charming sociopaths who smiled at their neighbors by day and experimented on them by night. When the truth came out, the world didn’t pity him. It exiled him.

Orphaned at twelve. Labeled at thirteen. Recruited at fifteen.

The world never gave him a chance to be anything but broken.

That’s why he understood her.

That’s why she trusted him.

Sabrina reached for the silver cross around her neck. “I won’t become them.”

“You already have a code name, a kill list, and zero intention of walking away clean,” he said dryly. “Tell me again how you’re different.”

Her eyes met his—ice against fire.

“Because I still remember her laugh. And I still pray I never forget it.”

That was the end of the conversation.

Zephyre checked his watch. “You’ve got three days. After that, we go dark.”

Sabrina nodded. Three days to infiltrate. To charm. To find proof.

To kill—if she had to.