Ren dreamed she was sleeping in a freezer.
Not just any freezer. It was the walk-in deep freeze at her old restaurant, the one where her sous-chef Dave had accidentally locked her in during the dinner rush back in 2019. The air was bone-chillingly cold, damp, and carried the faint smell of frozen shrimp and stagnant water.
"Dave," Ren mumbled, her teeth chattering. "For the love of God, turn the thermostat up. I'm turning into a popsicle."
"I am not Dave."
The voice was smooth, cool, and vibrated directly against her ear.
Ren's eyes snapped open.
She wasn't in a kitchen. She was staring up at a canopy of twisted, rotting trees that blocked out the stars. Pale, green moss hung from the branches like witch hair, dripping freezing water into the black abyss below.
She tried to sit up, but she couldn't. She was pinned.
A pale, muscular arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, and a long, lean, terrifyingly cold leg was thrown over hers, pinning her down.
She craned her neck.
