My stomach lurches.
This isn’t rich-guy excess. This isn’t convenience.
This isintent.
I grip the counter, breath coming shallow and fast.
He’s been watching me. There’s no other explanation.
And the worst part—the part that makes my skin prickle, and my thoughts scatter—is that some part of him knew me well enough to get it right.
That might be the most terrifying thing of all.
I don’t sleep. Ialmostsleep. That awful hovering state where your body sinks but your mind stays sharp, barbed, and waiting for the hit.
Every time I drift, the image snaps back into focus.
Them. Standing over me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe me in.
The words burned into the wall like they were carved there.
You killed my family. I will kill yours.
My chest tightens until it hurts. My body is wrecked—heavy, sore, and desperate—but my brain won’t shut up. Every creak of the floorboards makes me flinch. Every shadow feels deliberate. Watching.
I want to scream. I don’t.What would it change? What could Asher even do? What is he doing?
Am I safe here? With him?
The thought twists low and ugly in my stomach, shame crawling in behind it. Because the worst part—the part I don’t want to look at—is that some traitorous piece of mewantsto trust him, and wants to believe he’d protect me if it came down to it.
That’s what scares me most.
Morning arrives without ceremony. Just light leaking in through the glass and me feeling hollowed out. Brittle. Like my skin doesn’t quite fit anymore.
My head throbs. My limbs ache. But underneath all of it is something sharper.
Panic, honed into rage.
I drift downstairs barefoot, moving on autopilot. The marble floor is ice-cold, but it doesn’t ground me. Nothing does. The smell of coffee pulls me forward anyway—habit, maybe. Muscle memory. Something normal.
The kitchen stops me short.
It’s immaculate. Too immaculate. Every surface gleaming. Not lived in—maintained. The kind of space meant to impress, not exist in. Cold. Controlled. Like him.
I head for the freezer. I don’t know why. I just need todosomething. Touch something. Prove I’m real.
I yank it open, and my body locks.
Front and center on the top shelf sits a box of Ella’s favorite organic waffles.
My breath stutters. My heart slams so hard it hurts.
I stare at the box until the edges blur, until my mind slides somewhere dark and unbearable.
Them. In my house. Nearher. They aren’t just threatening me. They’re watching my sister. They know what she eats. What she likes. What makes her feel safe.
The waffles sit there like a message. A dare.
