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So she thinks.
“I’m not normally this hungry,” she says, pushing her plate away. “I took my meds, and they make me nauseous. I try to balance it out with food, but that doesn’t help much either.”
Interesting.
I’ve already reviewed Lyra’s medical history—or as much of it as I could find. She’s far from the healthiest person, though I am not sure what medication she could possibly be on that would cause regular nausea.
…unless she’s lying to save face.
“Have you spoken to your physician about that?” I ask noncommittally, sipping from my ginger tea. I haven’t touched any of the platters of food on the table. I had some sashimi and now I’m indulging in my usual afternoon tea.
Lyra shakes her head. “No… not really…”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s not important.”
“I would say nausea is important. It can be disruptive to your daily life. I’m sure there are better medications he can prescribe you.”
“I guess… but, um, I don’t have health insurance.”
My left brow arches. “Meaning you don’t have a primary physician.”
“Not really… no…”
Then where the hell do you get your meds from? Some dealer off a street corner?
I refrain from asking. Pressing her further would cross into much more personal territory, and as it is, we’re still on polite, barely acquainted terms.
Instead, I gesture to the tiny tattoo on the inside of her forearm. Simplistic piano keys inked onto her brown skin.
“You play?”
Her eyes light up for the briefest second before dimming.
Her favorite topic…
Until she remembers her recent performances at the Velvet Piano. I have no way of knowing with certainty that these are her thoughts, however, I am confident in saying so. In only a matter of days, I’ve become an expert at reading her.
“I do,” she answers mildly. “I’ve been playing since I was four.”
“That’s extremely young. Younger than most pianists.”
Her gaze dips to her forearm, her brows knitting. “Yeah, it is. I’ve always enjoyed it…”
“But,” I supply.
“But?”
“But, what? You trailed off, Lyra. If I didn’t know any better, something’s happened that makes you enjoy it less.”
“Good thing you said you don’t know any better, because you don’t,” she snaps. A sudden defensive air develops about her. A spark I’ve yet to see from her.
Little Lamb Lyra, do you have fire inside you yet? Not as pitiful and defenseless as you seem?
I could terrify her by revealing the true form of the monster she’s tried to challenge. I could resort to skewering her with sharp condescension and make her feel small like I do many in my social circles and in my private life.
However, I do neither—as far as Lyra Hendrix is concerned, I’m mild-mannered Kaden Raskova, who is friendly, charming, and simply trying to get to know her.
