Rachel hadn't left her room since the mid-terms ended.
Not because she was worried about her performance—she wasn't. Rachel Creighton, Saintess of the Creighton family, didn't worry about exams. Nor was it lingering fear of the demon they'd faced, though anyone else might have spent the next year flinching at shadows. No, her battle against Vespera wasn't the issue.
The issue was what happened after.
Her mind replayed the scene for what must have been the hundredth time, each detail as vivid as if it were etched into her skull. She could still see herself standing there, the words tumbling out of her mouth—her fantasies, of all things, dragged into the light and spoken aloud. And, of course, Cecilia Slatemark, ever the opportunist, had recorded the whole thing.
Rachel buried her face into her pillow, her cheeks so red she was sure they'd combust. She hugged the pillow tighter against her chest, as though it might shield her from the memory. It didn't.
