LISA
Wherever I am, it's huge.
We've taken at least three or four turns, and I've already forgotten how to get back. Was it left first, or right? The last turn was to our right. Wait… was it?
Shit.
Every ti I lag behind, trying to map this place in my head—which is little better than a toddler's scribbling at this point, with my confusion over lefts and rights—the tiny woman turns and scolds , telling to pick up my feet.
Before, I would have given her so sort of smartass comnt and maybe even slowed down.
But now, my body feels cold sweat at the idea of making her angry. Even if I'm a prisoner, at least I'm a clean and comfortable prisoner here. I don't want to go back to the previous standard of kidnapping.
So I shut my mouth and hurry behind, wondering how she can be so freaking fast with such tiny legs. She's probably the size of a kindergartener, but faster than a full-grown adult.
What bizarre witchcraft is that?
I force myself to focus on the path ahead, ignoring the endless parade of closed doors lining these stark corridors. No pictures, no decorations, not even a potted plant breaks up the monotony. Just door after identical door, their handles gleaming dully in the harsh overhead lighting.
The silence is oppressive. Our footsteps echo off the bare walls, amplifying the sound until it feels like we're being followed by an army. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder.
"Keep up," my tiny guide snaps for what feels like the hundredth ti.
I lengthen my stride, closing the gap between us. Seriously though, how can soone so small move so fast?
We round another corner, and I blink in surprise. Windows. Actual windows line this hallway, letting in natural light.
Wow.
The sun.
I haven't seen it in so long.
Before I can get a good look outside, my guide veers sharply to the right. She pushes open a set of glass double doors, ushering through with impatient gestures.
Heat and humidity hit like a wall. I stumble, montarily disoriented by the sudden change in environnt.
We're in so kind of massive greenhouse. Lush greenery surrounds us on all sides, climbing trellises and spilling out of planters. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and tropical flowers.
Beads of sweat imdiately form on my skin. My simple cotton outfit, so comfortable in the air-conditioned halls, now feels stifling.
My guide marches ahead, seemingly unbothered by the giant blanket of warmth pressing down on us. I trail after her, trying not to trip over the uneven stone path winding through the foliage.
As we walk deeper into this indoor jungle, a thought strikes with the force of a physical blow. I could run.
The realization freezes in place. I could turn around right now and bolt. My guide is tiny. I could easily outpace her if I tried, right?
But then what?
The montary surge of hope fades as quickly as it appeared. I have no idea where I am or how to get out of this place. Those endless, identical corridors would beco a maze. I'd be caught in minutes, if not seconds.
And who knows what punishnt would await for trying to escape?
I shake off the fleeting fantasy of freedom and hurry to catch up with my impatient guide.
She leads to a secluded area of the greenhouse, where an equally diminutive old man sits at a table. His beard cascades to his feet, and he peers through spectacles at a newspaper covered in unfamiliar script. A lavish spread of tea and snacks adorns the table before him.
Incongruously, it's sized for normal adult humans.
He's sitting in so kind of booster that gets him to the level he needs to reach the table.
I'd laugh, but I'm too worried about my fate.
Without warning, my guide shoves into a chair. I stumble, barely catching myself as I fall into the seat. The woman bows to the old man and vanishes, leaving alone with him.
Silence stretches between us as I watch him sip his tea. The greenhouse's humid air clings to my skin, making acutely aware of every bead of sweat forming on my body. I shift in my seat, wishing it was easier to breathe in this weather. Actually, I'm just wishing to be anywhere else in the world.
Well, maybe not anywhere. Would rather not be in my cell.
But even as I think that, there's sothing about this old man that puts at ease. A sense of warmth, of friendliness, radiates from him. It's as if I've known him for years, though I'm certain we've never t.
The feeling unnerves . Why do I feel this way? After everything I've been through, I should be on high alert. Instead, I find myself relaxing in his presence, my guard lowering despite my best efforts to remain vigilant.
I don't trust it. I can't trust it. This comfort, this sense of safety—it has to be so kind of trick. Maybe they've drugged . Maybe this whole setup is designed to lull into a false sense of security.
My fingers dig into the arms of the chair as I force myself to stay alert. I won't fall for whatever ga they're playing.
The old man turns a page in his newspaper, seemingly oblivious to my internal struggle. I study him, searching for any hint of malice or deception. His wrinkled face is serene, his movents unhurried as he reads.
Just as I'm about to break the silence myself, he folds the newspaper and sets it aside. His gaze ets mine, and I'm struck by the intensity in his eyes. They're old eyes, yes, but sharp and clear, almost terrifying with the way they seem to stare straight into your soul.
"Lisa Randall," he says, his voice surprisingly strong and deep for such a small man. "Welco."
My na on his lips sends a jolt through . How does he know who I am? A thousand questions race through my mind, but only one makes it past my lips.
"Who are you?"
He smiles, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I am the one who ordered your extrication, my dear."
He falls silent, watching expectantly. The pause stretches on, pregnant with unspoken aning. I rack my brain, trying to decipher what he wants from .
Then it hits . He's waiting for my gratitude.
"Oh," I stamr, caught off guard. "Um, thank you. I guess."
The words feel hollow, inadequate. But what else can I say? I'm grateful to be out of that hellhole, yes, but I have no idea if this situation is any better. For all I know, I've jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
Still, manners compel to add, "Why did you rescue ?"
The old man's smile widens, and he gestures to the spread before us. "Please, help yourself to so tea and refreshnts. We have much to discuss, Lisa Randall, and I find such conversations are always more pleasant over a good cup of tea."
I eye the food warily. It looks delicious—delicate sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and an assortnt of pastries that make my mouth water. But years of watching cri docuntaries have taught to be cautious of accepting food from strangers, especially when I've just been kidnapped.
Actually, scratch that. I really only learned the lesson from drinking that damn punch right before—well. You know.
"I'd rather not, thanks," I say, trying to keep my tone polite despite my suspicion. "I'd prefer if you just answered my question."
The old man's eyebrows rise slightly, but his smile doesn't falter. "As you wish. Though I assure you, the food is quite safe. I have no desire to harm you, Lisa. Quite the opposite, in fact."
He pauses, taking a sip of his tea before continuing. "As for why I rescued you... well, that's a rather complex question. The simple answer is that you were in danger, and I had the ans to help. It seed the right thing to do."
I snort, unable to contain my disbelief. "The right thing to do? You don't even know . Why would you go to all this trouble for a stranger?"
"Ah, but you're not a stranger to , Lisa," he says, his eyes twinkling with amusent. "I know a great deal about you. Your friendship with Ava Grey, for instance. Your relationship with the Westwood beta. And your fate, decided long before your birth."
My blood runs cold at his words. How does he know all this? I lean forward, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Who are you? Really? And what do you want from ?"
The old man sets down his teacup, his expression growing serious. "Who I am is not important right now. What matters is that I am soone who wishes to help you—and, by extension, to help your friend, Ava."
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