ELARA
The leather was cold when I sat down.
Kieran lowered himself onto the opposite sofa. The glass coffee table stretched between us—a Noguchi piece, all curves and polished wood, beautiful and impractical. I'd always hated it. You couldn't put your feet up. You couldn't set down a coffee mug without worrying about rings on the finish. It existed purely to be admired.
I watched Kieran's hands. He'd clasped them between his knees, fingers interlocked, knuckles raw. His right hand was worse than his left. He'd been hitting with his dominant hand.
I thought of Felix's face in the car. The cut above his eyebrow. The swollen lip.
Kieran shifted. The leather creaked. I lifted my eyes to his face. The cut on his cheekbone was still seeping slightly. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking
