I left the office with more questions than answers buzzing in my skull. The corridor smelled of old coffee and lemon cleaner, and each step away felt like shedding certainty. The people who raised me weren’t my parents — not legally or honestly. If they weren’t family, then who were my real parents? And why were those impostors so desperate to get me back?
I started up the staircase, hands shoved in my pockets. Asher fell into step behind me and, before I could push him away, pulled my hand free and closed his around it — warm, steady, anchoring.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he said, voice low and sure.
I let out a humorless laugh that tasted like old blood. “They raised me. They beat me. They tortured me. Every scar, every rule, every lie — I thought it had meaning.” My throat tig
