CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EDWARD Beads of sweat began to crown her hairline. She wiped her palms against her trousers—an involuntary, rhythmic twitch of nerves. Her gaze was a frantic thing: darting from my face to the door, then the window, before snapping back to me. She refused to hold my eye contact, yet I felt the weight of her stare every time she thought I wasn’t looking. She hadn’t touched the soup. I knew that for a fact, and I still intended to punish her for it. Though, in truth, the soup was secondary; my fury stemmed from the fact that she had—infuriatingly—fallen asleep in the lobby. Who does that? If I hadn’t ventured downstairs when I did, she would still be there. Or, in the worst-case scenario: I might not have gone to the lobby at all. She claimed she’d called, and I hadn’t answered. Of cour
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