Shirley
Morning light streamed through the slats of the blinds, cutting thin golden lines across the floor of my room. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t waking to blood, fire, or whispered warnings in the dark. Just the quiet hum of the bar downstairs and the faint sound of bikes revving outside.
I stretched, rolling my sore shoulders, and winced as I pressed a palm to the hunter’s mark on my neck. It wasn’t throbbing this morning—thank the Moon—but it still carried a dull ache, like the memory of a nightmare that never quite left me.
A knock came at my door, sharp and impatient.
“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed,” Zara’s voice called.
I groaned, pushing myself up. “Come in before you break the door.”
The handle rattled and Zara slipped inside, her dark curls bo
