He didn't take her to the balcony. That would have offered too much air, too much escape. Instead, Raven grabbed Gazelle's hand. His grip was firm, the calloused skin of his palm rough against her soft fingers, but he was careful not to crush her. He pulled her down the narrow, peeling hallway toward the small spare room.
He ushered her inside and kicked the door shut with his heavy combat boot. The sound was a definitive, heavy thud that vibrated through the floorboards, sealing them in.
The room was suffocatingly small. It was dim, lit only by the grey, watery light filtering through the dirty blinds, casting erratic shadows across the unmade sofa bed. The air smelled of dust and old memories, but right now, it was being overpowered by the scent of the man standing in front of her: rain, metallic gun oil, adrenaline, and the raw, earthy heat of a predator.
