Agnes
Elijah gently pulled me out of the banquet hall before I could say another word.
We reached the nearest bathroom—a small powder room off the main hallway—and Elijah ushered me inside, locking the door behind us. Without a word, he turned on the faucet and soaked a washcloth in cold water.
“Here,” he murmured, pressing the cool cloth to my face. The temperature shocked me at first, but quickly helped soothe the burning under my skin.
I closed my eyes as he moved the cloth from my cheeks to my forehead, then down to my neck. The anger and heat that had consumed me just moments ago began to fade, only to be replaced by a deep sense of embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered as Elijah gently dabbed the washcloth against my wrists. “I don’t know what came over me. I
