Page 122 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Never again will he face this shit alone. Never.

Angela eyes are amused as I wrestle with the sheet before I wrap my hand around his, but she doesn’t comment further.

Probably because Thorn is glancing down at me, his gaze full of fear and disapproval. “Little hen?—”

“No,” I repeat, more gently this time.

He studies me for another second then sighs heavily, and I know I’ve won.

I tighten my fingers around his, lean against him.

“What do you want, Angela?” he grits out.

“Get dressed”—a smirk—“and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Then she’s gone, disappearing down the hall.

“I thought Pascal’s men?—”

“Me too,” he mutters, moving to the dresser and pulling out a pair of sweats. He passes them over to me. They’re huge but they have a drawstring, so I’m able to make it—and the oversized tee he hands me next—work.

By the time we make it out of the bedroom, Angela’s standing in the kitchen, the bright overhead lights flicked on. She’s pale, pressing a bloodied towel to her arm, her features turned sharp by exhaustion, and she wavers slightly as we move over to her.

Well. That’s concerning.

She glances between us and smirks, her expression turning carefully blank. “And another one bites the dust,” she quips.

“What do you want?” Thorn asks.

A brittle laugh. “That doesn’t matter now, does it?”

I frown. “What’s wrong?”

Now her laugh is sharp, her voice taking on a shrill edge that seems oddly incompatible with how everyone normally describes her—confident, self-assured, annoying as fuck and determined as a dog to a bone.

And…a survivor.

Somehow, above all odds, Angela always survives.

“What isn’t wrong?” she says when she stops laughing, pulling back the towel to look down at her arm.

The way she says that? It sends chills down my spine.

Because Angela looks terrified. Panicked even.

She shoves back her hair with a shaking hand then reaches into her jacket and pulls out a folder, dropping it onto the kitchen island.

Violet jumps up, sidestepping it, then cautiously sniffs Angela’s hand.

Smart cat to be cautious.

But then she surprises the heck out of me by rubbing her head against Angela’s arm, her purrs beginning to rumble through the air.

What the?—?

Even more surprisingly, Angela gently strokes a hand over Violet back.

Gently.