In the orphanage? No meat to eat.
Back at the Locke house? Only leftovers and cold scraps.
In prison? I actually had the first hot meal of my life.
If Sebastian hadn’t been “taking care” of me on purpose, I’d have thought prison was better than this hellhole.
I slowly swallowed the lamb in my mouth and set down my fork.
My tone was airy, almost casual,
But every word was cold enough to cut:
“My heart? Didn’t your whole heartless family shatter it long ago?
What now—when I treat you the way you used to treat me, suddenly you can’t bear it?”
My gaze drifted into empty space as a memory surfaced.
Six years ago, Christmas.
I’d had a fever for three days and three nights straight, burning so hot I thought I’d combust.
I lay in the storage room, unable to get up, not eating, not drin
