Flora Bloom had known Ethan Monroe long enough to know exactly what every one of his expressions meant.
His current look—conflicted, grinding his teeth in helpless frustration—told her that this punk who'd just ambushed her must have given them plenty of trouble in the past.
Flora Bloom looked at the old man before her, the one they called Uncle Graham. His hair and beard were completely white, and his eyes were sizing her up.
"So, you're Flora Bloom? The woman who is to bear a daughter for our Cross family?" The old man stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His tone held none of the courtesy one would show a junior, nor the basic pleasantries exchanged between strangers.
Flora Bloom didn't answer. Instead, she asked, "This... Uncle Graham, how do you plan on dealing with this person who just ambushed me?"
"How audacious! How dare you be so disrespectful to Uncle Graham! You're dead!"
