Restless.
Nayla’s mind raced, refusing to settle. She tried to swap the significance of that crimson stain with anything more rational. Spilled sauce, coffee, perhaps paint. But no. The pattern, the hue, even the way the fibers had absorbed it, Nayla was certain it was blood.
Her thoughts were a cacophony of possibilities, colliding against one another. Was the blood Damian’s own? It didn't seem likely.
Then whose was it? What had Damian gone through before arriving here? And why? Why was there always something hidden behind that gaze and his unfailingly calm demeanor?
Nayla averted her gaze for a split second, long enough to reset her expression. When she looked back, she found Damian had already caught her eyes.
His look was neither questioning nor defiant. Yet, he seemed to realize
