LENA
The night air had turned bitter when we reached the new hideout—if it could even be called that. We'd run on foot before he stuffed me into the backseat of an SUV, four others trailing us as we drove. I had no idea where I was by the time we stopped, hours and hours later. It was an old stone lodge tucked deep in a gorge, surrounded by trees so thick the moonlight couldn't touch the ground. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves filled my nose as Marcus pushed the heavy door open and led me inside.
I didn't flinch, didn't resist. I'd made this choice.
The interior was dim and cold, sparsely furnished with just enough to keep the illusion of comfort—a cracked hearth, a moth-eaten armchair, a broken table in the corner. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that I wasn't dead, and neither was anyone else.
For now.
