The car rolls to a slow stop outside the entrance to Mark’s pack square. It’s bright out, too bright, and loud with the high-pitched chaos of a kids’ party in full swing. Balloons bounce in the summer breeze. Music thumps from a speaker someone clearly thinks is a good idea. Kids are running in every direction like sugar-fueled lunatics, screaming and laughing.
But all I can do is sit here, sweaty and hollow and aching in a way I can’t even explain.
Caden’s thigh is pressed against mine, his arm draped behind me like it’s casual. It’s not. He’s been watching me like a hawk since we left the shop—tense, unreadable—but I’m too uncomfortable to fully care. My head’s foggy, my stomach’s rolling, and my clothes feel like they’re glued to my skin. Everything’s wrong and tight and hot.
“Okay,
