MARK

My wrists burned from the rope biting into my skin. The room was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint hum of the wind outside. My shoulder throbbed where Alice had shot me, but the pain wasn’t the worst part—it was being here. Trapped. Helpless.

She sat across from me in an old wooden chair, legs crossed, her gaze locked on mine. Her face was unreadable, but I could feel the tension in the air. The way her fingers drummed against her knee, slow and deliberate, like she was thinking ...