LYRA’S POV
The cab ride back to the mansion was a blur of streetlights and my own ragged reflection in the window. My cheek still burned where I’d touched it after hitting Jeremy. My palm still stung. But deeper than that was a hollow, aching cold. I was so tired. Tired of the push and pull. Tired of wanting something from them—safety, understanding, even just respect—and getting only possession and blame in return.
They don’t see me. They see a thing to be managed. A problem to be solved or a toy to be played with.
I paid the driver and slipped through the front door like a ghost. The grand foyer was dark, silent. No Raphael waiting. No Caspian brooding. No Silas appearing from the shadows. For once, I was grateful. I didn’t have the energy for another confrontation, another set of int
