Tossing my ruined sweatshirt aside, I grab a hoodie, slipping it over my head. The house is quiet, but I can hear Tristan out in the guest house. He’s pacing, mumbling under his breath, nearly as stressed as I am. Guilt pricks at my heart, knowing it’s my fault he’s here. That it’s my fault he’s as much a prisoner as I am.
I slip downstairs, heading through the house to the back door in the kitchen. It leads out onto the back patio, a small, cement area surrounded by brush. There’s a circular fire pit dug into the ground with black iron chairs laid out around it. Wood is stacked along the back of the house by the door, ready to burn.
Walking past all of that, I pad softly toward the guest house. Tristan hears me coming, the door opening before I can even knock. It’s not a large buildin
