VANESSA
The moment I stepped through the doorway of the Moonstone packhouse, I felt it—something off. Something wrong.
It wasn't anything I could put my finger on. No one was arguing. No furniture was out of place. But there was a strange tension in the air, like the house itself was holding its breath.
"Home sweet home," Leo said, too brightly, taking my bag from my shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," I answered automatically, watching his face for clues. My brother was many things, but a good actor wasn't one of them. "Just tired."
"You should rest," he said immediately. "The doctors said—"
"I know what the doctors said." I tried not to snap, but three days of being poked, prodded, and patronized in the hospital had left my patience thin. "I had a magical backlash, not a terminal illness."
Leo winced. "Sorry. I just worry."
That was odd in itself. Leo wasn't the hovering type. He was more likely to tell me to walk off an injury than fuss over me.
