Sasha knew all eyes were on her.

His eyes, the only other eyes in this room, are fixated on her. His face veiled in the shadows, his broad shoulder tensing.

         “Fine. Keep the confession to yourself then.” He relaxed, breathing through his nose. “I want to know something else. I want to know if you—” he shook his head, not bothering to continue the question when another question popped out of his mouth instead. “Do you hate Ansel?”

         A direct, and bland question.

         “Sasha?”

“No,” she sighed, filling her lungs with enough air to speak to him.

         His face tightened with her answer. She swore sorrow flashed in those forest-green...