Isla
The temperature inside the mansion feels nothing like Michigan cold, it’s warm, familiar, filled with expensive wood polish and a scent of rosemary drifting from somewhere deeper inside. But the air between Zayne and his parents?
Cold. Frigid. Sharp enough to cut bone.
Mrs. Aurora’s hand lingers on Zayne’s arm after she asks, “Zayne, so you won’t greet your parents?”
He doesn’t respond. Not immediately. And even if he did, the look he throws Ronan tells me whatever comes out of his mouth won’t be pleasant.
I stand awkwardly in the foyer, Sienna beside me, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. Her face still looks pale and tense, as if she barely kept herself together long enough to greet us at the door.
Ronan’s eyes slide from Zayne… to me… then back to Zayne.
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