Page 88 of Ashen Souls

I smiled. “Deal.”

We grabbed something greasy and fast from the dining hall, and afterward, I just wanted my own space.

“I’ll walk you halfway,” Harper said as we stepped outside. “Just in case the universe tries something dramatic.”

“Please don’t give it ideas.”

The campus was almost deserted. The manic, abrasive energy of Friday night had burned itself out, leaving behind quiet walkways and empty lawns. At the intersection where our paths split, Harper gave me a quick, tight hug before heading back to the dorms.

I walked the rest of the way alone.

My apartment was pitch black when I unlocked the door. I took a shower, washing the last scent of the party down the drain, and crawled under the covers.

I lay there, listening to the silence and waiting for the inevitable punishment from Daeren.

I remembered how he had reacted to a harmless day I spent with Ethan. The possessive edge of his anger over a simple conversation in broad daylight.

If that was his response to a walk and a dinner, what the hell was he going to do now?

23

Waking up without a headache felt like a logistical error, but I wasn't going to complain.

It was a regular, boring Sunday morning. My wrist was blissfully cool. The shadows were only shadows. And since spring break officially kicked off tomorrow, even the usual pre-Monday panic had evaporated, leaving me with a blank schedule.

I eventually trudged to the kitchen to make a massive amount of coffee and something that loosely qualified as breakfast. Toast, eggs, and too much butter. I carried the plate back to bed and ate in actual peace, unbothered by the clock.

I checked my phone. A message from Harper was already waiting for me.

Harper: Reminder: the second you learn anything from your dad, I need to know. Immediately.

I smiled and typed back.

Me: Noted. I’ll narrate in real time if necessary.

Harper: Good. I thrive on academic suspense.

I set the phone aside and finished my coffee. But by late morning, the stillness stopped being relaxing.

The plan had been to wait until dinner, but sitting around my apartment felt like a terrible idea. I needed my father’s undivided attention before the house filled with noise: before my sister Chloe and my brother Matt inevitably turned the afternoon into a high-volume war zone.

I threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and sent my mom a quick text.

Me: On my way. Might be early.

Mom: That’s wonderful!

The drive to my parents' house took twenty minutes. I spent most of it actively refusing to let my brain spiral into worst-case scenarios. When I parked in the driveway, the two-story house looked peaceful.

The entryway hit me with the usual combination of lemon polish, the dusty scent of binding glue from my dad's workshop, and roasting garlic.

“Hello?” I called out, toeing off my boots.

“Kitchen!” my mom yelled back. “You’re early.”

“Decided to keep you on your toes,” I said, following the smell of food.

She was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, elbow-deep in what looked like enough prep work to feed a small army. She paused, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and gave me a quick look.