The first thing Althea felt was cold.
Not the kind of cold that came from air or water, but the kind that seeped into her bones, wrapping around her thoughts like invisible chains.
Her eyes opened slowly.
White ceiling.
Soft lights.
The smell of antiseptic.
For a moment, she thought she was back in the hospital where her mother had died.
Her heart clenched violently.
Then reality returned.
She was lying on a bed, her wrists no longer tied. The room was spacious, modern, and disturbingly luxurious. Silver curtains covered tall windows. The walls were painted in calm neutral colors, as if someone had tried to disguise a prison as a sanctuary.
She sat up abruptly.
Memories crashed into her mind.
The gunshot.
The darkness.
Dante’s voice calling her name.
Adrian’s laughter.
Her
