Lawrence.
The afternoon sun slanted across the polished wood of the private dining room, casting long, golden lines over the table.
I set my glass down with deliberate care, the soft clink against the coaster barely registering over the hum of the central ventilation. Across the table, Lurgard was still subtly shifting his weight so his shoulder remained pressed against Theresa's. His thumb was performing a slow, rhythmic circle against the back of her hand, completely unbothered by how transparent his possessiveness had become.
Theresa leaned into the motion slightly, her shoulders relaxed, a soft and effortless smile playing on her lips as she laughed at something Leonard said.
It was a good laugh, I mean it was real, light, and entirely free of the guarded tension that used to cling to her every breath.
A sharp, hot coil twisted tight inside my ribs.
