It started with a smell.
Stale cigarettes. Sour whiskey. Blood that had dried into the floorboards of my memory and refused to fade.
Then came the scream.
Not his.
Mine.
I didn’t even know I was dreaming—until I felt the panic clawing up my throat, heard myself whispering, "Please don’t, I’ll be good, I swear—" as if I were still that girl. Trapped. Starving. Covered in bruises and secrets.
And just like every time, I saw her. My mother. Her screams. The blood. The glint of the knife. The way I couldn’t move, even though I was supposed to run.
I couldn’t breathe.
My lungs locked.
Hands were on me.
I jerked—thrashing, fighting, gasping.
"Rory! RORE—It’s me."
The voice.
Low. Urgent. Familiar. Jace.
I blinked.
But my body didn’t know yet. My body still thought I was a child. St
