“I don’t want to go.” I clutched Constantine tight. Our hands shook as we squeezed them together on the filthy, worn mattress. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the cold, because we hadn’t been fed in days, or because of how terrified we were of what was waiting for us on the other side. “I don’t either. We’ll figure something out,” he promised. I turned my head, staring up into his bright blue eyes. Despite the years of torture, they remained vibrant and resilient. Constantine was a fighter, and he’d get us out of here. “We better,” Kansas, pacing the room, snapped at us. “Otherwise, one
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