Chapter 4

"You gave Serena my grandmother's journal?"

"I let her look at it. I didn't give it to her. What are you panicking about?"

I hung up.

I ran to the kitchen.

The counter was bare.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and looked in the trash.

Buried under wet vegetable trimmings and eggshells, I found several torn-out pages.

My grandmother's writing.

Soaked through with grease and water.

The page for "braised meatballs" — in the lower right corner was a small sunflower she'd drawn.

Next to it, her note: "Wren at three, first time eating these, cried because they were good and too hot."

The paper was half-rotted.

I crouched next to the trash and picked them out one by one.

Six pages.

All torn out.

The rest of the journal was gone somewhere.

I held those soaked pages in my hands, shaking.

I didn't hesitate.

I took the address Cain had given and got a car straight there.

An outdoor grilling site on the outskirts — twenty-something people gathered around barbecue grills and long tables. Smoke everywhere.

Serena was at the center grill, wearing a floral apron, stirring something with a spatula and smiling.

On the whiteboard beside her, in her handwriting:

"Serena's Private Recipe Showcase."

I walked closer.

In the corner of the grilling station, my grandmother's recipe journal was spread open, weighed down under a bag of seasoning.

The cover was splattered with oil. The rubber band was snapped.

Pages had been thumbed through until they curled. Several had chili paste fingerprints on them.

I reached for it.

Serena pressed her hand down on it.

"Wren? You came." Her smile was professional, smooth. "I'm still using this. Can I finish this dish first and then give it back?"

"That is my grandmother's legacy."

"I know — Cain said I could borrow it."

She blinked. "There are so many amazing recipes in here. Everyone loved the food. Your grandmother must have been a great cook."

I stared at her hand on the journal.

Her nails were painted pale pink.

"Let go."

"Wren, just a moment—"

I yanked the journal away.

She didn't let go, and the pages tore with a ripping sound.

It knocked into the soup pot on the grill.

The lid flew off.

Boiling bone broth splashed out.

It hit my right forearm.

The skin went white instantly. Pain shot from my wrist to my shoulder like a current.

I bit down and didn't make a sound.

The whole area went quiet.

Everyone stopped.

Cain pushed through the crowd and ran over.

He took one look at the scene.

Then he reached out and grabbed Serena's arm.

"Are you okay? Did it burn you?"

Serena's eyes filled fast. Her voice trembled.

"I'm fine... Wren just grabbed it suddenly, I didn't have time to react..."

Cain turned and looked at me with a frown.

"Wren. Was it worth it? Over a journal? If she got burned, could you have lived with that?"

I looked down at my own forearm.

The skin had blistered. Fluid was seeping through the broken skin.

I was shaking with the pain.

And he was asking whether Serena had been burned.

I clutched the journal — half-destroyed, full of grease — and stepped back.

"Cain."

He looked at me, impatient.

"You didn't just lose a journal."

"You lost me."

As I turned to leave, someone behind me raised a phone to take photos.

Someone made a low sound that wasn't quite laughter.

Serena was crying in small, quiet sounds, like a hurt animal.

Cain put his arm around her shoulder and said loudly:

"You need to take a long, hard look at yourself. Running to a Pack event with this drama, acting out in front of everyone — do you know whose face you're damaging?"

I walked out of the outdoor grounds.

The burn on my right arm had already begun to blister.

Every breath of wind felt like needles.

I got a car to the nearest clinic.

I rolled down the window and let the air in.

My right hand held the journal.

The cover still had my grandmother's handwriting on it — "Hearth Keeper's Journal."

Half-covered in grease stains.

I tried to wipe it with my left hand.

It wouldn't come off.

My eyes burned, and the tears finally came.

Not because of the pain in my arm.

It was because the page that said "Wren's favorite, add more sugar" — that page was gone.

At the clinic, the doctor treated the burn and wrapped my right forearm in bandages.

Second-degree burn.

Dressings for at least two weeks. Possible scarring.

I sat in the corridor on a plastic chair and texted Ivy.

"Book me a flight to the Southern Territory for tomorrow."

Then I opened my last conversation with Cain.