I clenched my jaw, swallowing down the sharp retort that threatened to slip out. Her calling me "Haye" instead of my first name stung more than it should have, but I couldn’t blame her. She had every reason to hate me, every reason to distrust anything that came out of my mouth.
She sat there on the bed, her chest heaving with exertion, her wrists bound to the headboard like she’d been thrown into some medieval nightmare. Her green eyes burned with a fury that could have set the room on fire, and yet, underneath that rage, I caught the faintest tremor of fear. It was a look I knew all too well, one I’d seen in the mirror during the years when my father’s fists had spoken louder than his words.
"I don’t make promises lightly," I said, keeping my voice calm, even. “And I don’t break them.”
