Chapter 7 - The Root Cellar
The darkness of the root cellar smelled of damp earth, stored potatoes, and old timber.
I tumbled down the steep wooden ladder, clutching my son against my chest with one arm while shielding his face from the choking dust with the other. My foot landed hard on the dirt floor, sending a sharp twinge of pain through my healing body, but I didn't dare make a sound.
Above me, the muffled sound of shouting filtered through the floorboards.
"Logan Wright! Put the weapon down and step away from the perimeter!" a cold, mechanical voice echoed through the living room—not Arthur Sterling, but someone even more chillingly detached.
"Get off my property, Marcus," Logan yelled back. His voice was steady, ringing with a fierce, protective fury that vibrated through the floorboards beneath my feet. "You have no legal authority here. I signed my disinheritance papers ten years ago!"
"You signed a financial waiver, Logan, not a biological one," the man named Marcus replied smoothly. "The Board of Trustees has exercised emergency guardianship rights under the amended charter of 1954. The child carries the primary genetic markers required for the phase-three neuro-regeneration trials. He is coming with us."
My blood ran instantly cold.
Phase-three neuro-regeneration trials.
The words spun in my head like a nightmare. They weren't just trying to steal an heir for some archaic family legacy or corporate dynasty. They viewed my newborn baby as test material. A living, breathing asset for their twisted medical experiments.
"Over my dead body!" Logan roared.
A sharp, deafening crack ripped through the cabin—the unmistakable roar of a hunting rifle discharging inside the small living room.
"Logan!" I screamed, clamping my hand over my mouth a microsecond later, praying the noise hadn't given away my hiding spot.
Above me, heavy scuffling broke out. Furniture overturned with loud, splintering crashes. Shouts, grunts, and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the floorboards. I wanted to climb back up the ladder, to throw myself into the fight, but I looked down at the tiny bundle in my arms. My son was blinking sleepily, entirely unaware that his father was fighting for our lives just a few feet above us.
Then, the fighting abruptly stopped.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the cabin.
"Secure him," Marcus’s cold voice drifted down through a gap in the floorboards. "And check the perimeter. She couldn't have gotten far in this weather on foot. Search every inch of this property."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Heavy footsteps began crossing the kitchen floor directly above the cellar door.
Creak. Step. Creak.
The footsteps stopped right above the hidden trapdoor in the corner of the pantry.
May you like
A shadow fell across the narrow gap in the floorboards as someone knelt down, testing the weight of the latch.
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