[Meredith].
Felling the urge to use the bathroom, I left the living area and made my way towards it.
After I finished my business, I stepped into the bedroom, still drying my hands, and froze at the sight before me.
Draven was inside the bedroom, standing in the living area with his back turned to me. He was staring at the small ashtray on the table, the one holding the charred remnants of my grandmother's letter.
Instantly, my stomach twisted. Of course, he would come looking for me.
The moment Draven sensed movement behind him, he turned slowly, and his gaze locked onto mine, calm and unreadable. His hands were buried casually in the pockets of his pants, but the tension in his shoulders said everything.
"What did you burn?" he asked.
The question hit me harder than his tone. I tried to act unaffected, fighting the urge to swallow saliva.
"The letter," I answered simply.
His brows pulled together in a faint frown as he stepped closer. "Why?"
