She'd exchanged the frailty of her nightgown for dark, fitted pants, a simple white blouse tucked neatly beneath a sturdy dark jacket.
The ensemble was modest yet functional, suited for travel or hardship—a silent declaration that she wouldn't be left behind, no matter what.
Isiah glanced up at her as she entered the room, his eyes quickly assessing her. He didn't show any sign of surprise, as if he had expected her to show up like this—dressed and ready, or at least pretending to be.
"Since you've chosen the hard way, don't you ever bring up emotions again. Don't cry to me about feelings, don't whisper about love, don't even think about it. You're here because you pushed your way in, not because you're wanted."
He straightened, his eyes narrowing in disdain. "So keep it to yourself, Lexie. All of it. I don't want to hear it."
Isiah glanced at her once more; she held her food bag between her hands, clearly on her lunch break.
