Luna Sophia pulls a chair from the corner of the room and sets it down directly across from the bed, the scrape of wood against old floorboards loud in the silence that has settled since her entrance, and she sits with the kind of deliberate calm that tells me this conversation has been rehearsed in her head long before now. She smooths her skirt, folds her hands in her lap, and looks at me like I am a problem she intends to solve with reason instead of force, which somehow makes my skin crawl more than anger ever could.
Devin stays by the door.
He does not look at me, not properly, and that alone feels wrong, because for all his delusion and obsession he has always watched me too closely. Now his attention is angled toward Sophia instead, waiting, listening, like he is the one being man
