CASSIAN
Penelope—as I’ve come to discover is her name—is asleep on the couch, tucked under one of Val’s many blankets.
She’s so small, so fragile. And ours.
Ours to protect now.
And why the f**k does Val have so many blankets in his study?
Did you know she ran away?” The words come out leveled, more controlled than I can give myself credit for.
I turn to Val, whose eyes are locked on the screen of his phone, furiously scrolling through tabloids, I imagine.
“Of course not,” he tosses his phone onto his desk.
He hasn’t looked this ready to kill in years.
“I should have known,”
His knuckles are white where he grips the armrests.
“When she panicked after I tried to take her to the hospital… I was so f*****g carried away.”
You can say the same for all of us,” I answer. The smi
