I closed the front door behind me, as if I had locked him out with it too.
Malaric.
His voice, his eyes, his fingers on my necklace – everything still clung to my skin, as if I myself were made of smoke. The smell of his cigarette lingered in my hair, faint but inescapable.
I let my bag fall into the corner, the straps sliding to the floor with a dull thud. I kicked off my shoes half-blindly, too quickly, as if I could shake off something that was sticking to me.
Mother called something from the kitchen, a warm, familiar sound – yet it sounded so distant, as if it came from another life.
"I'm here," I called back, too loud, too hasty. "Just need to do homework!"
I didn't wait for her response. Up the stairs, two steps at a time, until I was in my room. Door shut.
Silence.
