SCARLETT BLACKSTONE
The next morning, I awoke to a flood of unsettling memories. Logan's angry shouts echoed in my mind, the jarring moment I almost tumbled down the stairs and the way he had held me. The panic attack I experienced triggered a frightening recollection of my father's rage. His screams reverberated through the entire house, a prelude to the violence that followed.
As I slowly came back to the present, the sun's rays streaming through the window reassured me that I was no longer trapped in that nightmare. I felt a warm arm wrapped around my waist, and when I turned, I saw Logan sleeping beside me. His body radiated warmth, offering a stark contrast to the fear that had gripped me. His face, with its well-defined features and neatly trimmed beard, was softened in sleep, and
