"Wait, who's that?!"
Tiffany snapped when the knocking turned impatient—three sharp raps, followed by another, louder set that rattled the hinges.
Her irritation twisted her brows as she stormed toward the door, ready to unleash her temper on whoever dared disturb them this late. But the second she swung it open, all her annoyance drained out of her body.
Her heartbeat stalled.
Dashylle stood there—breath unsteady, shoulders tense—carrying Yvienna in his arms. Her cousin's head lolled against his chest, her hair cascading down like a fallen porcelain doll.
"I-Is she drunk?" Tiffany whispered, instinctively brushing a strand of hair across her face. As if hiding even a sliver of her features could keep him from recognizing her. She angled her chin down, lip trembling.
"No," he answered smoothly. "Where's her bedroom?"
His voice was a cold cut—steady, unbothered, frighteningly composed.
