Type:Home soon.
Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t know whatfinelooks like.
* * *
Back at the convent, I drop my bag and go straight to the sink.
I wash my hands.
Not because they’re dirty.
Because Iris touched something in me.
The door opens behind me—Blake’s footsteps, the drag of a duffel. He pauses in the doorway.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, not turning.
He watches a beat too long. I can feel it.
“You’re scrubbing,” he says.
“I’m washing my hands.”
“Same thing,” he replies.
I shut off the water and face him. Hoodie, jeans, wind in his hair, eyes sharp. He never looks fully relaxed, even when he smiles.
“Where’d you go?”
“I met someone who claims to be my half-sister.”
His expression changes, small but immediate. “How’d it go?”
I shrug. “She’s… intense.”
He steps closer. “Intense how?”
“Like me,” I say—and it tastes wrong.
His brows lift. “That bad?”
“Maybe worse.”
He studies my face like he’s framing a shot. “So she got under your skin.”
I scoff. “No one gets under my skin.”
Blake’s mouth tilts. “Shae.”
I push past him toward the living room. “She implied she might be The Watcher.”
He stops. “She said that?”
“She didn’t deny it,” I correct. “She liked the idea.”
Something flickers in his eyes—not fear. Interest. Like a producer hearing a better twist.
