Sansa's birthday Gift I
THE grandfather clock in the hall chimed its twelve mournful notes, marking the exact moment Sansa turned eighteen. The sound, usually a comfort, now felt like a gong tolling the end of her childhood. She lay in the vast, unfamiliar bed, the satin sheets cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat blooming between her legs.
This wasn't her bed at home. This was her aunt and uncle's guest room, a space usually reserved for distant cousins or business associates, now hers for the weekend. Her birthday weekend.
A soft click, then the slow creak of the door. Sansa’s breath hitched. She pulled the sheet higher, though a part of her yearned to toss it aside. The sliver of moonlight from the window caught Aunt Bailey’s silhouette first, then Uncle Ben’s, their
