His hand stilled mid-motion. The towel he had been rubbing through his silver hair hung suspended in the air. Water droplets fell onto the marble floor one… then another each sound painfully clear in the sudden, heavy silence. Slowly, Demian turned.
Valerie sat upright on the bed. Too upright as if she were bracing herself to receive any answer, even the one that would hurt the most. One of her hands rested over her abdomen, a small, almost unconscious gesture, yet to Demian it was unmistakable: instinctive protection.
Their gazes met.
Demian lowered the towel slightly. "Did that question," he asked quietly, "come to you after reading your novel?"
There was no mockery in his tone. It was more an attempt to find an opening a way Demian delayed what he knew would be difficult.
Valerie shook her head. "No." Her voice was calm, but a faint tremor betrayed her. "I just want to know." She took a breath, then continued with naked honesty. "Because we're not married."
