[Meredith].
I lifted the cup again, letting the warmth steady my hands before I took another slow sip. Then, carefully, I asked, "What about your mother?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, arms folded loosely, dark eyes watching me with that sharp attentiveness that never missed anything.
"Are you asking about," he said slowly, "the same person who attacked you today?"
His tone wasn't harsh, just painfully honest.
I shook my head. "It's not her fault. She just needs someone who can listen to her."
Draven almost laughed in disbelief. "That doesn't work," he said. "For how long did you listen to her? Ten minutes? Fifteen?" His jaw flexed. "And she still attacked you."
I sighed, lowering my gaze to the tea. "I think your mother hates your father very much."
Draven's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did—a flicker of confusion or discomfort.
I continued softly, "Do you know why?"
