CHAPTER EIGHT
The cabin smelled like home.
Sasha didn't know how that was possible. She'd never been here before. Never met this man before. Never even known he was alive until twenty minutes ago.
But the smell—wood smoke and old books and something herbal, something that reminded her of her grandmother's kitchen—wrapped around her like a blanket. Like a memory she didn't know she had.
Her father was still on his knees in front of her.
She was still on the floor.
Neither of them had moved.
"I'm sorry," he said again, and his voice cracked on the words. "I'm so sorry, Sasha. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you grew up alone. I'm sorry for every birthday I missed, every nightmare you had that I couldn't soothe, every time you needed a father and I was—" He stopped, swallowing hard
