The warehouse didn't just smell like rot and rusted iron anymore, it smelled like adrenaline and the foul, copper tang of fear. It's funny, isn't it? How quickly men can devolve when they think the world isn't looking. The air had shifted from the cold, almost surgical precision of a kidnapping into something far more visceral, something jagged and primitive.
Amara tasted blood. It was a hot, metallic bloom in the back of her throat that reminded her she was still very much alive, despite the stinging heat across her left cheek. She'd been shoved back into the center of the bay, the rough concrete floor scraping against her knees. Her navy dress was a total disaster. The lace was shredded, one sleeve hung by a literal thread, and the silk was smeared with the gray soot of a place that hadn't seen a broom in a decade.
