By 4:00 PM, the rain had turned into a steady, relentless drizzle, casting the library in a dim, slate-grey twilight.
For nearly four hours, the only sounds in the room had been the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass and the increasingly hoarse cadence of Leo's voice.
He was still kneeling on the rug. The binder was resting on his thighs, the pages filled with yellow highlights and meticulous margin notes. He had read through two hundred pages of maritime tax law and international liability clauses.
And for four hours, Damon's hand had not left the back of the boy's neck.
Damon's thumb rested lazily against the erratic pulse jumping just beneath Leo's skin. Damon worked on his laptop with his left hand, his right hand claiming ownership, keeping the boy at his feet. It was a terrifyingly comfortable arrangement.
