Desmond Loupé
Desmond stretched his legs out on the couch, resting his arm along the back of the cushions. The dim glow from the television flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows that moved in rhythm with the images on the screen. He wasn’t paying much attention to the movie, though. His focus was entirely on Cassandra.
She was curled up on the opposite end of the couch, her sock-clad feet tucked beneath her, eyes glued to the screen. A soft laugh escaped her, the sound so light and genuine it sent a warmth curling through his chest. He’d heard her laugh before—sarcastic, sharp, teasing—but this… this was different. This was unguarded.
God, he loved that sound.
A week had passed since they moved into the safe house, and every moment since had been a slow, steady unravel
