AVA’S POV
The silence in Damon’s safehouse wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating.
Every breath I took felt measured, heavy with unspoken truths and the sharp sting of fear. I sat on the edge of the couch in the dimly lit living room, gripping the steaming mug Damon had handed me earlier, long gone cold. The faint hum of electricity buzzed overhead, the only sound in the space besides the quiet drumming of rain against the reinforced windows.
Damon hadn’t spoken a word in the last hour. He stood by the glass panel, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes trained on the woods outside like he expected death itself to emerge from the trees. Maybe he did. After all, he knew exactly what—or who—was coming for us.
I wasn’t sure what scared me more: the assassin still hunting us… or the man guard
