ISLA'S POV
I didn't see Elena move. One second she was leaning against the crates, and the next her hand had fisted in my hair, yanking hard enough that my vision blurred white at the edges, a cry tearing out of me before I could stop it.
"Let go of me!" I clawed at her wrist, but Camille was already there too, gripping my other arm, and between the two of them I had no leverage, no footing, nothing but the humiliating scrape of my own heels against concrete as they dragged me toward a metal folding chair set in the middle of the room like it had been placed there deliberately.
"Sit," Elena said, shoving me down into it.
The moment my hands landed on the armrests, I felt it — something cold and tacky clinging to my palms, my skin catching against the metal in a way that made my stomach
