buried in the nape of her neck, his lips just millimeters from her skin, breathing in the scent of her hair with a rhythmic, ravenous intensity that looked less like paternal affection and more like an addiction.
Emma was completely rigid in his arms, her eyes wide open, staring straight ahead at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t fighting. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been packed away tightly in a box.
“Evan?” I whispered, the word tearing its way out of my throat like shards of broken glass.
He didn’t jump. He didn’t gasp in surprise.
With agonizing slowness, Evan turned his head away from Emma’s neck and looked over his shoulder toward the door. His hazel eyes, usually so soft and warm, looked flat, glassy, and utterly devoid of human recognition—like the eyes of a deep-sea predator
