Dawn creeps in like it doesn’t want to be noticed.
Gray light bleeds through the broken windows of my house, settling over overturned furniture and dark stains on the floor. The place smells wrong—metallic, sharp, old fear layered over newer panic. I stand in the middle of my living room, arms wrapped around myself, staring at the dried smear near the door.
Blood.
My chest tightens, then loosens again, like my body can’t decide whether to panic or go numb.
Asher crouches near the stain, fingers hovering just above it. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t need to. His eyes track patterns I can’t see—direction, force, intent.
“Say it,” I whisper. “Just say it.”
He looks up slowly, and the tension in his face makes my stomach drop.
“This isn’t fatal,” he says. “Not even close.”
Relief slam
