Dahlia
My throat burned—raw and searing like molten fire pouring down and scouring the walls from the inside out.
I'd downed a mixture of milk and moonroot elixir, its taste bitter, to dull the pain. I was lucky mom had some in the kitchen, or I'd be in a lot of pain.
I could've blamed myself for everything that happened, for having the idea of lacing their food with wolfsbane. But I wouldn't.
None of this would've happened if they'd left me alone rather than forcing me to cook dinner.
I honestly didn't know how they'd known I laced their food. I was careful and organized, masking my true intent with every move. And still, they'd figured it out.
Those bastards were smarter than I gave them credit for.
Now I sat crossed-legged in the center of my dad's room—now his study rather—pspers scattered around me like fallen leaves. My fingers were inkstained as I foraged through the pages of his journal, desperate to find something solid.
That's when I saw it.
