I wasn’t woken up by the blaring noise of my alarm.
Nope.
Instead, it was Anya’s voice—loud, shrill, and absolutely unnecessary for this ungodly hour.
I groaned, rolling over and pulling my blanket over my head. It’s the weekend. She could take whatever drama she had brewing somewhere else.
“Camila!” she shouted again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending I was still asleep. Maybe she would give up.
“Camila, open the damn door!”
Or not.
I felt the doorknob jiggle, followed by a thud.
“The f**k?” Anya muttered.
Right. The barricade.
I smirked sleepily.
Last night, in my rage-induced haze, I had shoved my desk chair and some miscellaneous items in front of the door just in case Mr. Hands-On Without Consent decided to get bold again.
It wasn’t much, but apparently, it
