Page 157 of Their Arrangement
She didn’t glance in.
Didn’t give me the flicker of deference she usually did.
But I felt her.
Like a storm passing just overhead. Just enough static to lift the hairs on my arm.
She reached her desk. Sat carefully. Her jaw was tense. Her hand moved to her lower stomach and stayed there a moment too long. Rubbing. Pressing. Trying to hide the fact that she was trying to ease something she didn’t want to name.
I knew what it was.
And I knew what she needed.
I left the door open.
Didn’t call her name. Didn’t need to.
The second she looked up, I saw the flicker. The pause. The weight of her pulse behind her eyes.
She rose slowly. Adjusted her corset at the side. Smoothed her skirt like it made a difference.
It didn’t.
Not to me.
She stepped inside.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Just closed the door behind her and stood with her hands clasped in front of her like she already knew why she was here.
I stayed behind the desk.
Watched her.
Watched how carefully she held herself. How tight her breath was. How the flush that lingered across her cheeks hadn’t dulled since Wolfe’s hands left her.
“You’re not bleeding because of him,” I said.
Her eyes widened—but she didn’t move.
I rose.
Walked toward her. Slowly. Measured.
I stopped just short of touching her.
“He gave you the pouch.”
No answer.
But I saw it—the tremble in her throat, the way her jaw shifted like she wanted to deny it but couldn’t. She’d been seen. And she knew it.
I reached out.
Pressed my palm to her lower belly.
She gasped. Subtle. Sharp.
Not in pain.
