Ten minutes.
I count the seconds. I’m numb; conflicted. I haven’t moved from my spot since Marcelo left the room. He had no right. He was right. I am selfish. But his words stung. He’d gone too far.
I tug at the hairband that held my ponytail; letting the hair loose, suddenly annoyed by the pressure of the band pulling at my scalp. I hiss, getting to my feet. Why am I so affect by his words? Why should I be affected? Why shouldn’t I be affected?
Breathe.
I’m pacing; eying the bookshelves, the desk, the drawers, the chairs, the papers and the curtains and the floorboards and the walls; anything to get my mind off my emotions.
Where is Dmitri anyways?
I stomp over to the door, open it, and slam it close behind me.
Andre passes the study just then; his gaze glancing my way, his express
