The air inside the safe house was thick with tension, every second stretching into an unbearable silence. Damon sat at the head of the long wooden dining table, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed in thought. The dim lighting cast sharp shadows on his face, making him look even more menacing than usual.
Alina sat across from him, her nerves shot. She could still hear the explosion ringing in her ears, still see Vincent’s cold, taunting smirk in her mind.
"You're too quiet," Damon muttered, his sharp gaze cutting into her.
Alina exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "What do you want me to say? That I’m fine? That I’m not thinking about how close we came to dying tonight?"
Damon’s jaw tightened. "You’re safe now. That’s what matters."
Safe. She almost laughed at the word.
