Nixon’s POV
"Move another inch and you will sleep in the hall," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy quiet of the bedroom.
Scout froze on the edge of the mattress. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the silk of her pink robe, her back stiff enough to snap. "The sentinel said this was where I belonged tonight."
"The sentinel does not sleep in this bed." I dropped onto the opposite side of the mattress, keeping my eyes fixed on the ceiling plaster. The sheets between us felt like a thin strip of neutral territory in a war zone.
"I can leave," she muttered. She shifted her weight, the fabric of her nightgown rustling against the blankets. "Say the word and I am out the door."
"And tell my mother what?" I turned my head on the pillow, watching her profile in the dim moonlight.
