Viktor pushed the door open, and the stench hit him first.
Blood. Sweat. Fear.
The room was cramped—more like a storage closet than a place for someone to sleep. The walls were cracked, dotted with moisture stains that spoke of years of neglect.
In the corner, what passed for a bed was really just broken furniture—old wooden planks, a torn mattress, some cloth—all arranged haphazardly by Black, who'd probably done the best he could with what little they had.
And there, on that makeshift bed, was the young woman.
Bella.
Her body trembled violently, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Tears streaked down her face in slow trickles, catching the dim moonlight filtering through the single grimy window.
Her breathing was ragged, uneven, her face twisted in a frown that screamed of nightmares.
At first glance, someone might think she was cold. The room was freezing, after all.
But Viktor knew better.
