She should have been fierce. She'd planned it, rehearsed it in her head—the glare, the sharp voice, the list of offenses delivered like arrows. But when he asked, "Why is my Bella mad at me?" the words melted in her mouth and refused to harden again.
Her cheeks went hot.
Her hands fidgeted against each other, thumbs brushing restlessly, the little movements betraying her nerves even as her lips tried to form the words she'd forgotten.
She rocked heel to toe, a tiny sway that made the strands at her temples brush her jaw. Even the morning air felt thick, warm with the scent of crushed herbs lingering from earlier, sunlight spilling across stone and fur as if the room itself was listening.
