JASMINE'S POV
The morning sun slipped through the slats of Sophia's kitchen blinds, painting golden stripes across the countertop like a crime scene I hadn't cleaned up yet.
I cracked an egg.
Too hard.
The shell shattered in my hand, the yolk oozing over my fingers and dripping to the counter. I stared at it like it might spell out answers, like the mess could give me something… anything—to hold onto.
Then I wiped it away and reached for another.
Sophia stood at the stove in a tank top that said "Tired But Sassy" and plaid pajama pants, flipping pancakes with more aggression than finesse.
She was humming off-key, some '90s pop ballad she probably hadn't thought about since college.
The melody was clumsy, but it filled the silence—something I couldn't quite do myself.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I could still feel him: Aiden's weight pinning me down, the fire in his eyes, the scrape of claws that didn't touch me but could have, the terrifying nearness of it all.
