ADAM
Daniel leaned back into the velvet armchair, his arms stretched wide across the headrest, looking too comfortable for the sharp words he let slip.
"The girl is trouble."
I didn't look up right away. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing shadows that reached high into the vaulted ceiling of the common room.
We sat there, the three of us, waiting while our wives-to-be prepared themselves for the evening.
A ceremony demanded gowns, makeup, hair, shoes that glittered—all the tedious things that required hours of effort. I had half a mind to retreat back into my study with the stack of reports waiting there, but tradition demanded otherwise.
Beside Daniel's chair, Noah leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Which girl?"
Daniel scoffed, that deep rumble of irritation that always preceded one of his lectures. He looked ready to spit nails. "Don't tell me your lunas didn't mention her. The girl who slapped Claire."
