Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, carved with angel-soft beauty, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection. But Renna knows perfection is nothing but a golden prison, coated in pretty lies that k...
"Forever might be a long time but I wouldn't mind spending it with you."
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Cameron pulled the car to the side of a narrow gravel lane, the kind that looked like it hadn't seen tarmac since the Stone Age. The tires crunched loud enough to wake the dead—but not Renna. She was still curled up against me, dead to the world, her cheek pressed into my chest like I was a human pillow she'd paid for.
Bloody hell, she's out like a sedated kitten.
I glanced out the window-grey skies, damp grass, and a small house at the end of a dirt track. Smoke drifted from its chimney, curling into the Highland mist. It looked like time itself had retired there—uneven walls, slate roof patched in a dozen shades, and a garden full of wildflowers that clearly hadn't been told they'd gone feral decades ago.
"Right," Cameron said, stretching like he'd just driven across the continent instead of three hours from Glasgow. "Everyone out. I'll not face gran alone. She's probably crocheted my obituary by now."
Isla unbuckled, smacking his shoulder. "You promised her you'd visit in the summer. It's nearly winter."
"I did," he said. "Summer just... didn't work out."
"Morag won't kill him," Freya muttered, "she'll bake him into one of her pies and serve him to the neighbours."
Cameron groaned and got out, boots landing with a wet splat. Freya followed, dragging George out by his hoodie, both of them already laughing about something.
I looked down at the girl still plastered to me. Renna was out cold, one hand clutching my shirt, her legs folded awkwardly like she'd melted there. I smirked, running my thumb absently through her hair. She made a small noise, the kind babies make when you dare disturb their sleep. Her lashes fluttered, then dropped again.
"Renna," I murmured, giving her shoulder a light shake. "We're here."
Nothing.
"C'mon, Lancaster," I tried again, "you've had your coma. Rise and shine."
Her only response was a tiny, sleepy whine and a tighter grip on me.
Perfect. Human koala.
I heard the click of my door. Cameron's grin appeared through the gap, evil and glowing. "Shift over, Callahan. I'll handle this."
"What are you-"
He crouched, plucking something from the ground—one long blade of grass, slightly wet. He twirled it like a surgeon about to commit a crime. "Observe the art of the wake-up."
