The world came back in fragments.

First, the scent—pine and antiseptic, thick enough to drown the memory of smoke and gunpowder. Then, the cold. A deep, bone-deep chill that seeped through the blankets, through her skin, settling into her marrow like an uninvited guest.

Finally, the pain.

Lila gasped as consciousness slammed into her, her body screaming in protest. Her thigh burned where Mia’s knife had sunk in. Her wrists were raw, her throat tender. She tried to move, but her limbs were leaden, weighed down by exhaustion and something else—something chemical.

Drugs.

Her vision swam as she forced her eyes open. Wooden beams stretched above her, rough-hewn and aged. A cabin. Small. Secluded. The kind of place people went to disappear.

Or to hide bodies.

The door creaked open.

Adrian stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the blinding white of snow outside. His face was a mess of bruises, his lip split, one eye still swollen shut. But he was alive.

And he was smiling.

"Hey," he said softly, setting a tray down beside the bed. Steam curled from a bowl of soup, the scent of herbs and warmth cutting through the sterile air. "You’re awake."

Lila’s voice was a rasp. "Where—?"

"Montana." He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing her forehead, checking for fever. "No one will find us here."

Us.

The word should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

Lila’s gaze flickered to the window. Snow fell in thick, silent sheets, burying everything. The trees, the road, the blood.

Mia’s blood.

The last thing she remembered was the knife at her throat. The darkness swallowing her. But Adrian had gotten her out.

How?

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Mia—?"

Adrian’s expression darkened. "Gone."

"Dead?"

His silence was answer enough.

Lila’s stomach twisted. She should have felt relief. Instead, dread pooled in her gut, thick and heavy.

Mia’s body is never found.

Adrian squeezed her hand. "It’s over, Lila. We’re safe now."

But the way he said it—like he was trying to convince himself—made her skin crawl.

Three days passed in a haze of painkillers and restless sleep.

Lila’s strength returned in increments. She could stand now, could limp to the small kitchen, could stare out the window at the endless white and wonder if they were truly alone.

Adrian was different here. Quieter. More careful. He watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, his gaze lingering on her hands, her throat, her bandages.

Like he was waiting for something.

On the fourth night, the wind howled like a dying animal, rattling the windows. Adrian had gone to town for supplies, leaving Lila alone for the first time.

She shouldn’t have snooped.

But she did.

The cabin was small—just a bedroom, a living area, a kitchen. Nothing hidden. Nothing unusual.

Until she found the basement door.

It was tucked beneath a rug, the wood warped with age. The handle was cold in her grip as she pulled it open, revealing a set of narrow stairs descending into darkness.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Don’t.

She went anyway.

The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic.

Blood.

Her fingers fumbled for a light switch. When the bulb flickered to life, the room came into sharp, horrifying focus.

A desk. A chair.

And walls covered in news clippings.

Dozens of them.

Missing Woman, 24, Last Seen at Bar.

Police Suspect Foul Play in Disappearance of Local Waitress.

Family Pleads for Answers as Search Enters Third Month.

Lila’s breath hitched.

Every article had a photo.

And in every photo—lurking in the background, standing at the edge of the frame, watching from the crowd—was Adrian.