Elena woke to silence.
Her head throbbed, her ribs ached, and her throat felt dry as sand. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a lantern perched on a wooden table. The room smelled faintly of pine and smoke, the walls rough-hewn logs, the floor covered in worn rugs.
Not a hospital.
Not Damian’s mansion.
Somewhere in the wilderness.
She shifted, and the coarse blanket slipped from her shoulders. Beneath it, she was still in her torn, bloodstained dress. Panic rushed through her veins, sharp and choking. Her eyes darted to the shadows until they caught on him.
Michael.
He sat in the corner, leaning against the wall, his leather jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. His arms were streaked with dried blood, some his, some Damian’s, but his eyes never left he
