Luca turns off the main road onto a dirt track that is barely visible. The Bronco bounces and groans over the ruts.
"Almost there," I say.
We drive for another mile into the wilderness until a small cabin appears in a clearing.
It’s rough. Log walls. Tin roof. A chimney puffing faint gray smoke—the automatic heater must be working on the solar reserves.
"Home sweet hell," Luca mutters, killing the engine.
We get out. The silence here is absolute. No ocean. No city hum. Just the wind in the trees.
"Get inside," I tell Ivy. "Check the perimeter, Luca."
I grab the duffel bags.
We walk into the cabin. It’s one room. A wood stove. A bunk bed. A table. Dust motes dance in the light of the setting sun filtering through the dirty windows.
It’s primitive.
Ivy stands in the center of the room, looking around. She looks at the single bunk bed with the thin mattress. She looks at the rusted pump at the sink.
"It’s not the Penthouse," I say, dropping the bags.
"It’s better," she says quietly.
I look at her, surprised. "How?"
"No cameras," she says. She points to the corners of the room. "No screens. No eyes."
She turns to me.
"Just us."
She walks over to the wood stove and opens the door. She grabs a log from the pile and throws it in. She grabs a box of matches.
She lights the fire.
I watch her. The flames catch, illuminating her face in a warm, orange glow. She looks primal. She looks like a witch casting a spell.
She stands up and turns to me.
"We have no money," she says. "We have no guards. We have enemies coming to kill us."
"Yes."
"Good," she whispers.
She walks over to me. She wraps her arms around my neck, standing on her tiptoes in the heavy boots.
"Then we have nothing to lose."
She kisses me.
And in that kiss, in this freezing cabin in the middle of nowhere, I feel a shift in the universe.
The captive is gone.
The queen has risen.
