Anya gathered her tools again, the soft click of compacts and the muted rustle of brushes sliding into her palm.
I left him there—bleeding, shaking—and crossed the warehouse to the chair they had set against the wall. It scraped faintly against the concrete as I sat.
The second man's eyes never left me. Not even when Anya tilted his head, her fingers gentle but firm. His gaze tracked me like prey tracks a predator, knowing the distance doesn't make him safe.
I leaned back, letting my hands rest loosely on the armrests, and watched.
For a fleeting second, I wondered what Isabella was doing right now. If she was at a café with Aria, teasing her about something trivial. If she was laughing, crying, stuffing her mouth with delicacies or simply humming along to a song with aria. I hope she isn't thinking about what happened to her and she is able to live her day normally.
