Andrea's words tumble out in fragments explanations, justifications, apologies that sound hollow even to her own ears. They dissolve into silence when Kayden's hand closes around her wrist.
Not roughly. That would be easier to understand, easier to fight against.
His grip is firm, measured, the kind of control that comes from deliberate restraint rather than impulse. There's no tremor in his fingers, no heat of anger bleeding through his skin. It's the gentleness of it that makes her breath catch, makes her stomach twist with something worse than fear.
"Kayden, please, just let me—"
"I heard everything."
His voice is low, stripped of inflection, each word enunciated with careful precision. Not the precision of rage, but of someone choosing their words the way a surgeon chooses where to cut.
Andrea's throat closes. "What?"
