A woman strides in with easy confidence, a glass dish wrapped in foil cradled in her hands, steam curling up around her. She sets it down on the table without ceremony, then takes in the room with a slow, assessing glance.
My gaze locks on her immediately, because she’s impossible not to look at.
She has a short blonde pixie cut, the ends dipped in purple like she got bored of being ordinary and decided to defy society. Crystal-green eyes that don’t just see you—they own your every breath. She’s wearing black leggings and a hoodie, casual, but her energy fills the room like she brought her own oxygen. She’s tall, though not intimidating in size, and she moves like someone who has never once asked permission to take up space.
“I figured the saint of sleepless nights could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine,” she muses, looking at Justin.
Justin’s mouth twitches. “Bold assumption.”
“No one’s ever accused me of being timid,” she replies easily. “Or wrong.”
She turns then—finally noticing me.
Or maybe she noticed me the second she walked in and just wanted to let me watch her first.
Her eyes sweep me. Not rude or pitying. Just thorough. Taking in the blanket. My scar. The bruises on my throat. My hands clench of their own accord, a thread of anxiety rippling through me.
What do others see when they look at me?
Then her gaze flicks to Justin. Back to me. Something passes between them in that look. Something lived-in. Familiar. A language I no longer speak. My chest tightens.
Sister.The realization lands like a cold hand over my mouth. Justin has a sister. How did I not know that? She’s standing here like living proof. Like a secret he didn’t bother to mention because it didn’t occur to him that I might want to know.
Justin doesn’t introduce her. She doesn’t introduce herself either. Of course she doesn’t.
She just crosses the room and sets another bundle on the desk—cutlery, napkins—like she planned for this exact moment. She seems like the type who plans for everything.
Then she points at Justin with her chin. “You’d better eat this,” she warns. “I made it myself.”
He stands and walks to the table, then peels back the foil. The heat punches up into the air. The smell is so warm it almost hurts.
“Chicken and rice,” he muses, before he covers the casserole again.
His sister—because she is, I’m sure now—leans back against the desk and scans the room out of habit. The ceiling. The corners. The doorway. She moves like she’s memorized exits the way other people memorize phone numbers.
And something about that makes my throat tighten even more. Because I recognize it. I used to have someone who moved like that with me.
Missy.
I tuck my hands under the blanket, clench and unclench. Because I can’t help it. I force my breathing to stay even. I do not go there. Not now.
The sister’s gaze drifts back to me again, softer this time. Still sharp. But less… assessing.
“Who’s she?” she asks Justin bluntly, jerking her chin toward me.
Justin doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick to mine first, like he’s considering how much to give her.
“This is Rowan,” he introduces me finally. “She’s staying here.”
The sister’s eyebrows lift. “Staying here, or stayingwithyou?”
Justin’s jaw tightens. “Bethany.”
So that’s her name. Bethany. It fits her—bright and biting at the same time.
She looks at Justin like she’s not even slightly scared of him. Like she’s been unimpressed by his intimidation since childhood.
“And why have you been hiding her from me?”
