Chapter 2

I could feel their eyes on me—like three white-hot blades all plunging into my skin at once.

On the stairs, my mom stiffened.

Her eyes narrowed, not out of concern, but in a flash of shock and revulsion—like she'd just caught sight of something disgusting.

Pain crashed over me in waves, tearing at my nerves. My hand didn't even feel like it belonged to me anymore—just charred flesh and a searing, unbearable ache.

I saw the look on my mom's face.

I was terrified she'd turn away and walk off, just like she always did, never looking back at me again.

Maybe I was just not good enough. If making Mom happy meant I had to hurt, then maybe I didn't deserve to complain about the pain at all.

I swallowed the sob threatening to escape my throat, forcing every ounce of strength just to manage a smile—one uglier than any tears.

Blood seeped from the edge of my pale lips.

I choked out, "Mom, smile."

But my mom didn't smile.

The shock in her eyes faded, giving way to a cold, poisonous hatred.

She spat out, "Freak. You're just a crazy little freak."

She looked at me as if I were the most horrifying monster she'd ever seen.

Suddenly, Claire screamed.

She stumbled over, yanking me away from the hot oil, then spun around and shouted at the maids, "What is wrong with you people? Is anyone even paying attention to her?"

One of the maids scrambled over with a basin of cold water, and Claire carefully dunked my burned, ruined hand into it.

The freezing water soothed the fire just a little, but my whole body couldn't stop shaking from the pain.

Claire stared at my ruined hand, tears welling in her eyes. In an instant, the gentle warmth in her gaze flared into rage, and she shot my mom a fierce glare up the stairs.

She snapped, "Emily, just look at her. That face, she's the spitting image of you when you were little. If it wasn't for that, Lucas and I would've never even considered bringing her home.

"Don't forget, half of what's in her veins comes from you."

Claire's words flipped a switch in my mom, and she just snapped. Lucas couldn't hold her back anymore.

My mom sneered, "My blood?" She let out a harsh, almost hysterical laugh and marched down the stairs, jabbing her finger at me. She said, "She doesn't deserve it. She's just like that bastard—both of them can burn in hell."

With that, she stormed out the front door without looking back.

Claire led me into a beautiful room—it was spotless, almost unreal compared to anywhere I'd ever been.

A man in a white coat came in. He carefully treated my scorched hand and wrapped it up with layer after layer of white gauze, until it looked more like a weird little mummy than a real hand.

Claire stayed beside me the whole time, dabbing at her tears quietly, her grief heavy but silent.

I wondered why Claire would cry.

I looked down at my bandaged hand, feeling puzzled.

Did I screw it up again? Maybe I didn't keep my hand in the oil long enough, and that was why Mom got so upset and ran out. But it hurt so much.

That night, I lay on the huge, soft bed, staring up at the ceiling, wide awake.

I told myself that I couldn't let Mom get angry at me again.

Before sunrise, wincing from the throbbing pain in my hand, I quietly snuck out of bed and made my way back to Snowy's doghouse in the yard, careful not to wake anyone up.

Snowy was deep in dreamland, but he stirred when I crawled inside. He sniffed at the healing salve on my hand, gave a gentle yawn, then scooted over in silence, making space for me to curl up beside him.

I curled up in the familiar straw, the pain in my hand pulsing with every heartbeat.

The way my mom turned and looked at me today kept playing in my head—the fierce, almost shocking expression I'd never seen on her face before.

Did that count as her noticing me?

If Mom would just smile, then hurting a little was fine.

Holding my tightly bandaged hand close, I finally drifted off to sleep in the freezing doghouse, that thought warming me more than the hay ever could.