Fucking brilliant.
I drag a hand down my face, then pocket the phone with a dry chuckle and start moving—shoulders hunched, boots splashing through puddles.
Well what’s better than feeding my beast blood. Feeding him a peach.
6
JASMINE
A couple of hours later,I’ve unpacked my entire life—which, turns out, doesn’t take long when it fits into three garbage bags.
The closet looks like a sad showroom display. A few worn hoodies, some ripped jeans, a handful of crop tops that have survived every shitty laundromat in Mason Park, and one too-tight dress I never have the courage—or occasion—to wear. That’s it. Spread across this walk-in closet like it’s supposed to mean anything.
I have to see if Cast’s financial kindness spreads to adding some more clothes into my closet, maybe some clothes from Macy’s instead of Walmart.
I wander back into the bedroom. The sun is beginning to dip outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the whole space in golden light like I’m trapped in a perfume commercial.
I groan and flop onto the bed, arms stretched out, legs splayed like a starfish. The mattress swallows me instantly, way too soft for its own good, and a traitorous moan slips out of my throat—low, involuntary, embarrassing.
“This bed is a crime,” I mutter. “It’s a trap. No one should sleep this well.”
Still. It doesn’t matter how soft it is. Or how expensive. Or how many thread counts the damn comforter has. The silence is louder.
No Willow. No Tommy. No Derek or stupid midnight-shift fryers. I’d even take Landon’s obnoxiously smooth London accent—the one that grates on my nerves and curls my toes at the same damn time.
Normally, around now, I’d be slipping into that itchy polyester uniform and heading out for my night shift at Lucy’s Chicken Swamp—home of over-salted fries and the greasiest burgers in Mason Park. Derek and I used to take turns betting on which customer would scream first, or which fryer would explode.
But I had to quit.
Two days after almost being kidnapped, the Italians showed up asking for me—pretending to be family, fake cousins with slick smiles and itchy intentions. Derek lied without blinking, told them he’s never met a Willow in his life, much less a blonde girl with pink streaks. He plays dumb like a pro, and I absolutely love him for it.
Now? I’m safe. I’m “taken care of.” Financially stable, with a fridge full of groceries I didn’t pay for, and none of my mother’s drug-addicted, or drug-selling boyfriends to wrestle out of the hallway at 2 a.m.
But fuck… happiness is kind of boring.
No drama. No chaos. No rats in the kitchen or bills taped to the fridge like threats. Just… routine.
Eat. Sleep. School. Survive.
Repeat.
It’s better. I know it’s better. But it doesn’tfeelbetter.
At least back at the trailer park, I had people. Nights with friends huddled around a cracked fire pit, burning marshmallows and swapping gossip. Movie marathons with borrowed DVDs. Willow teaching me how to paint, both of us covered in more acrylic than the canvas. PlayingFuck, Marry, Killuntil our sides hurt from laughing.
Now? Nothing.
No noise. No color. No mess.
Just me, this too-perfect apartment, and a silence that doesn't feel like peace—it feels like a padded cage.
I groan, burying my head into the pillow, because according to his Royal HighnessMaster Landon, I can’t leave until he comes home.
I roll over, grab my phone off the nightstand, and hit his contact for like the tenth time today.
One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.
Hey, it’s Lan. Leave a message at the beep.
