From book 2 of the Witherwilds trilogy.
Lelo scooped up the pieces of the vial, angry tears blurring her vision. She squeezed the fragments so hard, she cut her palm; blood trickled to the floor. Wishing the evidence in her hand was as easy to wipe away, Lelo smeared the blood into the flagstones with her heel.
By the time she reached their crowded rooms, her mother was passed out on the couch, her stash of euphoria scattered on the cushions and reed mat at her feet. Head buzzing with rage, Lelo watched her mother’s chest rise and fall with heavy breathing, the dribble of saliva trailing down her chin and neck, the hand that twitched reflexively between her legs. Part of her wanted to scream and shake her mother awake, make her admit she was a liar, a selfish weakling who cared about no one, who couldn’t even keep a simple promise.
Hands curling into fists, Lelo imagined shaking her mother, slapping her, clawing sense into her, until her mother cried and took her in her arms and hugged her tight, so tight, and promised, swore on Lelo’s own life that she would never ever, ever even look at another vial of euphoria.
