Sabrina felt her inner child ache—an almost childish, desperate longing—for her mother's embrace as she sat beneath the cold, assessing gaze of Noah Newman.
It didn't matter that her mother was seated right beside her, close enough for their arms to brush, or that her father occupied a solitary sofa a few feet away; what she wanted was to burrow, to shrink inward, to escape that knowing stare that kept sending icy chills racing down her spine.
Without a single word spoken in the five minutes they had sat in suffocating silence, she knew enough of the reason he was here. To kill her.
Her gaze darted, quick, to his well-manicured hands. Empty.
She had checked before—she wasn't sure what she had been expecting, a blade, a gun, anything—but the sight did nothing to soothe her nerves.
He could have men waiting outside, ready to cart her off the moment he gave the signal. Would her parents be involved too?
