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 time 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 me, telling me to pick up my feet.


    Before, I would have given her some sort of smartass comment 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 time.


    I lengthen my stride, closing the gap between us. Seriously though, how can someone 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 me through with impatient gestures.


    Heat and humidity hit me like a wall. I stumble, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change in environment.


    We''re in some 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.


    Just as I''m about to break the silence myself, he folds the newspaper and sets it aside. His gaze meets 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. "Welcome."


    My name on his lips sends a jolt through me. 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 me expectantly. The pause stretches on, pregnant with unspoken meaning. I rack my brain, trying to decipher what he wants from me.


    Then it hits me. He''s waiting for my gratitude.


    "Oh," I stammer, 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 me to add, "Why did you rescue me?"


    The old man''s smile widens, and he gestures to the spread before us. "Please, help yourself to some tea and refreshments. 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 assortment of pastries that make my mouth water. But years of watching crime documentaries have taught me 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 means to help. It seemed the right thing to do."


    I snort, unable to contain my disbelief. "The right thing to do? You don''t even know me. Why would you go to all this trouble for a stranger?"


    "Ah, but you''re not a stranger to me, Lisa," he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "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 me?"


    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 someone who wishes to help you—and, by extension, to help your friend, Ava."