Shirley
I was tired of fear.
It had followed me like a ghost ever since I set foot in Ashridge. From the first night at Dante’s bar to the dying wolf to the strange glowing mark now etched into my skin—fear had been clinging to me like a second skin.
But not today.
Today, I was determined to pretend like everything was fine.
Back in my black jeans and a cropped denim jacket, I walked into Dante’s Biker Bar with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes and a stiffness in my shoulders I refused to let Zara notice. The mark still tingled beneath the hoodie I’d worn earlier, and now under the fabric of my jacket, it pulsed occasionally—like it had its own heartbeat. I resisted the urge to scratch it again. That always made it worse.
The bar was quiet, as expected. Most people were still uneasy
