"ABSOLUTELY NOT!"
Melissa's voice hit the walls of the private VIP booth like a cannon shot. Glasses rattled on the table. Ice shifted in the champagne bucket with a brittle clink.
Two of Victoria's college friends—who'd been lingering near the door like they still had a right to be there—flinched hard and decided elsewhere was suddenly very appealing.
She was shivering.
Not like Phei's shiver. His had been clean terror—the bright, animal panic of a boy who knew his limits and had just been told they were about to be exceeded.
Melissa's shiver was colder. Deeper. Laced with something that tasted like rust in the back of her throat and smelled like old fires that had never properly gone out.
Hatred.
"ABSOLUTELY YES," Dravenna said back.
Her voice was calm. The infuriating, measured, Dravenna sort—warm on the surface, steel underneath.
