Everly trailed Damian through the villa's corridors, a reluctant duckling following a very large, very menacing goose. The journey spilled out into a sprawling, picture-perfect backyard.
Every instinct screamed at her to be on high alert. Backyards were her personal Bermuda Triangle; weirdness was the local weather. Assassins, lost child, system-destroying psycho—it was a veritable buffet of chaos. She stayed on high alert, her eyes scanning the pristine rose bushes for hidden ninjas or, at this point, a particularly aggressive garden gnome.
But today, the universe seemed to be taking a coffee break. Nothing happened.
They kept walking. And walking. Everly's stomach, a traitorous organ, chose this moment to rumble, a low, mournful sound of protest.
