"And pacing around like a volcanic eruption wouldn't help either. You're making me restless too," she remarked calmly, her gaze never leaving the newspaper spread out before her.
"Then just tell me precisely, with great detail, what the hell should I do? She's hurting out there, and what do you expect me to do? Sit here and smoke a joint with you?" Devereaux snapped, frustration seeping into his voice.
Lady Moira sighed, folding the newspaper neatly and setting it aside. "You haven't changed at all, Severan. You're still that eighteen-year-old Nova brought to me—restless, nearsighted."
"What the hell, woman? She's your granddaughter too. How can you be so cool about it?" Devereaux demanded, his eyes flashing with anger.
"I didn't write her fate," Lady Moira reasoned, her tone calm yet firm. "And don't worry. She is stronger than you think."
2AM urges : |
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