The air in the dining room was thick with a new, terrible silence. The shattered glass on the floor seemed to reflect the fractured trust between them. Eric quickly pulled his hand back, trying to hide it behind his back as if that could undo what she had seen.
"What is that on your wrist?" Delia asked, her voice a low, trembling whisper.
Eric forced a nervous smile, a stark contrast to the sheer panic that had taken hold of his eyes. "What? What do you mean?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice was strained.
Her shock was quickly being consumed by a cold, rising anger. She would not be dismissed. She lunged forward and grabbed his wrist again, pulling his hand from behind his back. Her grip was surprisingly strong. The rose bud tattoo was there, stark and undeniable against his skin.
