Leona’s POV
His gaze landed on me. I stood there shaking. He made approach. As I moved back a bit, my eyes meeting his unreadable gaze.
Without a word, he turned and walked away. I stumbled into my room.
Slamming the door. I dropped to the floor. The storm hit me—grief, rage, shame, betrayal. I cried hard, broken.
I stared at my palm. The scar of the injury I sustained when I was 17.
The night my foster father came home drunk, he was dripping anger as usual. I had gone to bed early, hiding under blankets until the fuzzy call of sleep took me.
But he’d kicked the door open, angry—vodka mouth, fists ready. He screamed, delivered questions like bullets: “why will you sleep without waiting for me, huh?”
I remember hugging the locket so tight it cut into my skin. His eyes met the locke
