People like me don’t write books. We’re written about.
The world feels like it’s caving in around me, one bottle and one sleepless night at a time. I’ve faced gunfire, betrayal, and every kind of hell imaginable, but this? Being left with a baby on my doorstep, a tiny, screaming reminder of a life I didn’t ask for, feels like >
The day had been like any other, class, drinking, and trying to forget Lilith was gone. That’s what I’d been doing ever since she disappeared, drinking. Numbing the pain just enough to get by. It kept me sane, or at least, that’s what I told >