I wake up to sunlight and the smell of something cooking.For a second, I forget where I am. Think I'm back home, in my tiny room, with Dad making breakfast downstairs. Then I see the white walls, the unfamiliar ceiling, the fireplace with cold ash in it.Right. Silvermoon. Damian's house. Not dead.I sit up slow. My body doesn't hurt as much today. The rejection sickness is fading—still there, a dull ache in my chest, but not the bone-deep agony from before. I can breathe without feeling like someone's stabbing me.There's clothes on the chair by the window. Jeans, a sweater, socks. All look about my size. Maya's work, probably.I get dressed slow. The jeans are soft, worn-in. The sweater is thick and warm and smells like cedar. I run my fingers through my hair, find a brush on the nightstand, try to make myself look less like someone who almost died in the pain.It doesn't work. But at least I'm dressed.I follow the cooking smell downstairs.The kitchen is huge. Like, embarrassingl
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