Yavannah Constantine
I sighed for the hundredth time today, shoveling a spoonful of mac and cheese into my mouth. It tasted bland despite how well-seasoned it was.
Everything tasted and looked bland, like all the color was slowly draining from the earth, and I was caught up in one black-and-white ancient TV show.
"Why the frown, Anna?" Yaskier sighed from across the table, reaching out to kick my shin. I sent him a harsh glare before returning the favor—kicking him so hard that his knee banged against the top of the table, making all the crockery rattle and jingle.
"Mind your business, twat," I replied, turning my gaze back to my phone expectantly. It had been a full day, and I hadn't seen or spoken to Adonis. Where was he?
