My heart thuds, and I sway, unsteady near the broken glass.
“No,” Lukas says, sweeping me off my bare feet and moving me from the busted window. “That’s up to me. I want restraining orders against all of them. I want confirmation that they leave town in less than an hour. I want them put on our blacklist. They do not touchanythingbeneath the Bachelor umbrella ever again. I want their names to be mud.”
“On it,” Viktor says.
“I’ll make the Canva Whiteboard,” Crisis notes. “Murderboard style.”
“I love your murderboards,” Viktor murmurs.
“Kyran, help me clean up this glass before someone gets hurt.” Morana plants her hands on her hips, locates Kyran, and rolls her eyes. “Whatare you doing?”
Kyran, holding Brent’s confiscated and forgotten Switch, says, “Judging.”
“Well, stop that? And get a broom.”
“Right away, mistress.”
Their voices drift, growing fainter with every stride Lukas takes toward the back staircase that leads up to the third story and our rooms.
Every step echoes in my chest.
I close my eyes.
My body remembers my mother’s hug; my mind replays her words.
My cheek stings.
I press my face against Lukas’s phoenix tattoo and dwell on the meaning behind a firebird.
From the ashes, we are reborn.
I will never subdue my voice again, and I willneverlet someone who responds to it the way my mother has into my life ever,everagain.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean this will stop hurting any time soon.
