Vincent did not look at Paul.

He kept his eyes on the ceiling hatch above us while he reached into his own coat.

He pulled out a small, heavy black revolver and pressed the cold checkered grip into my right hand.

My fingers closed around the metal instinctively.

The weight of it sent a cold chill straight up my arm.

“He is yours, Lena,” Vincent said, his voice entirely calm.

“Choose how this ends.”

“Do you want to be free, or do you want to run for the rest of your life?”

Paul slid down the wall, clutching his bruised throat.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and wild with terror.

The man who had spent years making me feel small was now shivering at my feet.

“Lena, please,” Paul whispered, his voice cracking in the damp air.

“You don’t have it in you.”

“You’re nothing without me.”

Even now, terrified for his life, he tried to claw back his control over me.

I raised the revolver, aiming it straight at his chest.

My hand shook slightly, but I did not lower the barrel.