Page 42 of Beloved Sacrifice

“Technically…” Rose let the word trail off.

“I believe she was running from you when I arrived.”

“Just…just get in.” Weston gestured with the muzzle of the gun. Marek walked to the door.

“Wait,” Weston barked out. “You swear you were not sent to kill her.”

“I’m not a killer,” Marek said, and looking at him, Rose believed it.

“In that case, get in. Both of you,” Weston said.

Rose raised her brows, but the expression was wasted. Weston wasn’t looking at her. She slipped through the narrow doorway and started down the stairs. She groped in the gloom and found another cord at the foot of the stairs.

The cellar was small, with low wood ceilings and stone walls. No window, no way out but the stairs. There was a set of shelves along one wall, the wood silvery white with age. On the bottom shelf were a few tarps, large bottles of water, and other emergency preparedness items.

Marek followed her down.

She looked up to where Weston’s big body blocked most of the light from the kitchen. The bare bulb at the top of the stairs cast the undamaged left side of his face in shadow and made the features she could see harsh and sharp—the false eye, the scars around it, the misshapen brow bone.

Rose closed her eyes and her heart clenched.

You’re not the only one who suffered, Rose.

The door closed.

Marek Lee looked around then placed his hands on his hips. For some odd reason, the posture reminded her of Superman.

He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “This,” he declared, “is not going particularly well.”

Rose started to laugh.

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