The scent in the foyer was suffocating. A dark, churning tide that amplified my anxiety until I could feel the individual beats of my heart hammering against my ribs.
I hesitated, my hand still trembling on the doorknob, unable to move past the entryway. I didn't have the courage to face Elara. I wasn't ready. If I'd had an hour, a day, maybe I could have found a way to stand tall, but there was no such luxury in this house.
"—Lyra."
Her voice wasn't a shout, but it struck me like the crack of a whip.
I flinched, my gaze snapping toward the living room.
Elara was sitting on the sofa, her silhouette buried in the darkness. With her elbows on her knees, she leaned forward, poised to spring, ready to claim my throat at the slightest movement.
"Max isn't from an orphanage... Since when?"
