Vincent POV
Myra’s breathing had finally evened out. She was curled against my arm, small fingers resting on my wrist, her lashes still wet from tears. The room smelled faintly of milk and lavender, her comfort scents.
“Hey, little warrior,” I whispered. “You didn’t eat anything.”
She mumbled something against my sleeve. “Not hungry.”
“You said that some minutes ago.”
“Still true,” she murmured, eyes half-closed.
I brushed her hair off her forehead. “What if I told you the kitchen made your favorite soup?”
There was no answer from her, and I was sure she was only trying to make things harder for me. I knew the buttons to press, so I continued.
“And maybe there’s dessert too,” I added softly. “Chocolate cake. A very small piece, if a certain brave girl comes downstairs with me.”
H
