Tugging the loose fringe falling into her lips, I tuck it behind her ear and cover her crumpled body with a quilt.
Lying on my side of the bed, I face her.
There is a strange calmness on her face.
Seeing it, I feel like half of my day's fatigue vanishes into thin air.
It's not logical.
I know. But then, when has logic ever worked when it comes to her?
I've been watching her for the past few days and noticed that she's trying to keep her mind preoccupied with work.
I told Martha to stop her—she is my Queen now.
What kind of Queen washes the laundry of others?
But Martha said my doll wasn't listening.
Our eye contact has been minimal, and I miss it. She is lost in her own world most of the time, oblivious to everything.
The news of her family's murder has made her retreat into a safe shell.
And I don't like it one bit.
I want to hear her voice—to hear her scream profanities at me like the lioness she is.
