Page 3 of Mortify

"From enemies they created." He slams the trunk. "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Your brother's learning that the hard way."

The casual cruelty of mentioning Bjorn makes me fumble with the bags.

Dylan notices, of course he does, and smiles that cold smile that never reaches his eyes.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he says, pulling me close for what looks like an affectionate goodbye. To anyone watching, it probably seems sweet—a boyfriend kissing his girl before leaving. They can't see how his fingers dig into my arms through my jacket, can't hear the whispered threat: "Remember what we talked about. I'll know if you say anything. And remember—Tuesday, 2 PM, physical therapy. No guards."

Astrid appears in the doorway just as he's releasing me. "Hey, you two! Perfect timing. We need all the help we can get."

Dylan turns on the charm instantly. "Just dropping Everly off with the supplies. Gotta visit my mom, but I'll be back later." He pulls me against him again, pressing a kiss to my temple that looks tender but feels like a brand. "Take care of my girl for me."

"That's sweet of you to visit your mom on Thanksgiving," Astrid says, but I catch her looking at me, something uncertain in her eyes. "Thanks for braving the stores today. I know they're crazy."

"No problem," Dylan replies, already heading back to his car. He calls over his shoulder, voice carrying clearly, "Everly, baby, text me if you need anything. Love you!"

"Love you too," I respond automatically, the words tasting like ash.

After he drives away, I stand there holding grocery bags, trying to switch gears.

From Dylan's girlfriend to Everly, EMT and sister and helper.

The mask I wear feels heavier each day, harder to maintain.

"You okay?" Astrid asks softly, studying my face. "You seem... tense."

"Yeah, just tired. Long morning at the store. You know how people get before holidays—fighting over the last can of cranberry sauce." I force a laugh. "Where do you need me?"

She doesn't look entirely convinced but doesn't push. "Kitchen's command central. Fair warning—it's chaotic as hell in there."

The kitchen is exactly what Astrid promised the moment we enter.

The smell of sage and butter fills the air, mixing with the sound of women laughing and chatting. This is what family feels like—warm and loud and accepting.

So different from the cold criticism I just left behind.

Steam rises from pots on the stove, windows fogged with condensation, making the space feel like a cozy cocoon.

"Thank the gods you're here," Charm says, taking bags from my arms.

Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun, flour already dusting her cheek. "We're already behind schedule. Can you start on the pie filling? Aziza will walk you through her recipes."

I nod, grateful for the distraction.

Keeping busy means less time to think about Dylan, about the bruises under my long sleeves, about how I've become someone I don't even recognize anymore.

Aziza greets me with a warm smile, wearing a beautiful burgundy blouse that complements the holiday. "Ever made pie filling from scratch?"

"Not since I was little, with my mom," I admit.

"Then we'll refresh your memory. Come, I'll show you my secret ingredients."

We work side by side, her gentle instructions soothing my frayed nerves.

She doesn't ask why my hands shake slightly as I measure spices, doesn't comment when I jump at sudden noises.

Just continues talking in her calm voice about proportions and techniques.

The morning passes in a blur as we get everything ready for the day.

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