Ella
The luxuriousness of the suite was quickly overshadowed by the cold weight of Marina’s smirk, the shine of my pistol in her hands contrasting sharply with the opulent interior.
My heart leaped into my throat. In my haste, I had left my purse on the bed, so consumed by the idea of wearing the ridiculous bikini.
“Give that back, Marina,” I hissed, too tense to even move.
Marina smirked. “Well, well,” she said, letting the pistol dangle dangerously with her finger in the trigger guard. “Color me surprised. Ella Morgan keeps a gun in her purse. It’s like… finding a snake in a flower patch.”
I felt my throat constrict. Ema urged me to lunge for the gun, but I knew that it was dangerous.
“Just… Put it back,” I said. “Please.”
“I have to know, though,” she said.
