Lorraine's voice was steady, almost dismissive, but carried the weight of quiet resolve. "It was a simple feat," she said, shrugging as though speaking of nothing more complicated than the weather. "When I realized he wanted you dead, he became a dead man walking. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist seeing it with his own eyes… your…" She cleared her throat, the word "death" too heavy to speak, even in the dim safety of their private room.
Her hand reached out, gentle and deliberate, tracing the curve of his jawline, moving down to his lips. If she hadn't stayed awake, piecing together scattered reports and whispered rumors, she might not be here now. She might already be dressed in mourning black, trapped in grief.
