The farmhouse no longer felt like shelter.
The air reeked of gunpowder and blood, heavy enough to choke on. Rose couldn’t tear her eyes from the body on the floor, sprawled unnaturally where it had fallen. Her hands still tingled, phantom vibrations from the poker’s weight trembling through her bones.
Daniel reloaded with precise, practiced motions. Click. Snap. Slide. His face was carved from stone, his jaw set tight. But his eyes—when they flicked to hers—were softer, reluctant to leave her standing so close to the corpse.
“We can’t stay,” he said at last, his voice low but urgent. “His partner will bring more.”
Rose swallowed hard. “Tonight?”
“Now.”
Within minutes, the farmhouse was stripped down to essentials. Daniel shoved supplies into a battered duffel—ammo, maps, a burner pho
