Claire’s POV
"You actually think you can hide in my kitchen?"
I do not turn around. I keep my back to the hallway and spin the heavy wooden spoon through the boiling pot. The chicken broth bubbles. Fat globules pop and hiss against the stainless steel. The scent of rosemary and crushed garlic rises with the steam, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. It smells like a home. It smells like a lie.
"The Grand Luna is dead within the week, Claire," Nella whispers from the doorway.
Her breath is shallow. I hear the quick, uneven patter of her canvas shoes on the linoleum as she steps inside. She is an Omega, just like me, but she lacks discipline. She fingers the frayed hem of her dirty apron, her knuckles white.
"She is not dead yet," I say. My voice is level. Flat. I keep my gaze l
