-Aurelian Salvatore:
I was sitting on the floor of their bedroom, back against the side of the bed, surrounded by empty bottles.
Glass everywhere.
The sharp scent of alcohol hangs thick in the air. I fucking hate alcohol. I hate the smell, the taste, and everything about it.
I tilted another shot back—vodka this time. It burned all the way down, harsh and bitter, but it didn't do what I wanted it to do.
It never did.
I felt it. A little. A dull warmth in my veins. A slight blur at the edges of my thoughts.
Tipsy.
That was the limit.
That was always the limit.
I slammed the empty shot glass down beside me and let out a humorless laugh.
This was the exact moment I hated being a witch.
I hated the control. I hated the resilience. I hated the way my body metabolized poison like it was nothing. Mortals could drown themselves in alcohol and forget for a while. They could black out. They could escape.
I couldn't.
No matter how much I drank, I was always aware.
