CELESTE’S POV
Cold.
That was the first thing that tore through the fog in my head.
Not the sharp bite of winter air, but a damp, stale chill that crawled under my clothes and clung to my skin.
My body jerked—and metal rattled with the movement. I realized…
My wrists wouldn’t move. They were held in place by cool iron.
W-what?
My lashes fluttered open, my vision blurry. For a moment, I thought I was still in the hotel suite—the silk sheets, the glinting chandeliers, Brett’s flat voice twisting through my mind like a cruel dream.
But hotel suites didn’t smell like this. Rust. And gasoline. And sweat. And urine.
My surroundings came into focus. With it came cold, heavy dread.
I wasn’t in a bed.
I was sitting on a metal floor—corrugated, ridged, rocking slightly beneath me as if…
As if I was moving.
A truck.
I was in a fucking truck.
I blinked, taking in the space. It was dimly lit by slivers of light seeping through the cracks of the shuttered back doors.
