Adrian's house was not a home. It was a frat house with a multi-million dollar budget.
There was an infinity pool. There was a vintage arcade in the living room. There was a fridge stocked entirely with protein shakes, champagne, and—judging by the counter—three tubs of chocolate ice cream.
Anaïs buzzed the intercom. The gate swung open.
She walked up the driveway, her cane clicking on the expensive pavers.
She expected to find Sacha traumatized. She expected him to be crying in a corner, missing his parents.
Instead, she heard screaming.
Joyful, sugar-fueled screaming.
"Dodge this, Alien Scum!"
Anaïs pushed open the front door.
The living room had been transformed into a war zone. Sofa cushions were piled up to make a fortress. Nerf darts were everywhere.
Sacha—wearing his tactical trousers and a pair of Adrian's oversized sunglasses—jumped out from behind a recliner. He fired a foam dart.
Thwack.
It hit Adrian right in the forehead.
