I sit in the hard chair beside Logan's infirmary bed, my arms crossed and my jaw locked as I watch him fumble with the hem of his shirt.
He grunts, his fingers tugging uselessly at the fabric. "A little help, please?"
I don't respond. Instead, I continue to glare at him, skinning him alive with my gaze.
"Okay then. No help," Logan huffs, stuck halfway through pulling the shirt over his head. His voice is muffled when he says, "You can't stay mad at me forever."
"I can damn well try."
He visibly flinches at my tone. The next thing he groans is, "Mama..."
Ma is sitting on a stool nearby, arms folded, her expression unreadable.
She says, calmly, "I'm sorry, Lolo. Talk to your mate."
I snap, "Don't talk to me."
Ravenna returns into the room, holding a small woven basket that fills the space with the smell of sea salt and lavender. "Are we ready to get started?"
Logan, still entangled in his own shirt, sighs. "Mama, could I please get some help?"
