"You really are not going to tell us where you're from?" Adam asked finally, breaking the silence that had settled thickly over the table. His tone was almost casual, but the glint in his eyes was anything but.
He picked up his cutlery, slicing neatly into the roast on his plate with the sort of precision that said he was used to control—of people, of power, of moments like this.
To diffuse the tension that had risen after my little exchange with Claire, he had rung the bell earlier, calling in the servants to begin the dining proper.
Silver trays, covered dishes, and the soft clinking of china had replaced the dangerous quiet that had been hanging over the room.
It had worked, mostly—Daniel's glare had softened, Noah was back to smiling lazily, and even Claire had forced herself into silence, though her chest still heaved from suppressed fury.
