The Three Who Chose Me

Josie

"Don’t talk."

The words slammed into me harder than his footsteps across my room. For a moment, I just stood there, blinking at him like I’d misheard. But I hadn’t. His voice was sharp, clipped, not raised—but still brutal in its lack of care.

Something about it punched a hole in my chest.

Not because it hurt, exactly.

But because it reminded me.

My dad had that voice. That same cold steel in his tone when he wanted silence. When I was a kid and spoke too fast, asked too many questions, or cried too loudly—he’d level me with a look and say it just like that.

Don’t talk.

And I would shrink.

Just like now.

I stared at Thorne, feeling like I’d been peeled open. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore—the one who curled in on herself when someone spoke harshly. But here I was, seventeen all over again and flinching at a man’s voice.