Liraine looked like the walking dead—gaunt, hollow, far thinner than the last time Isolde saw her. The moment Isolde entered the room with Nikhael, Liraine's eyes snapped to him, sharp and full of rage.
Isolde understood that look. Liraine had every right to hate him. Nikhael was the one who told her to abort the baby. She had every fucking right to be furious.
"I told you I didn't want to see your goddamn face," Liraine spat at Nikhael.
But Nikhael didn't flinch. He didn't say a word. He just ignored her screaming like it meant nothing, walking further into the room and fixing his cold stare on Malric, who sat at the edge of the bed checking Liraine's condition.
"How is she? When can the abortion be done?" Nikhael asked, like he wasn't talking about something that would tear her apart, like he was asking about a fucking dentist appointment. Liraine's face flushed red with rage. Her eyes were glassy, her chest heaving, her voice shaking.
