"Did you sleep well?"
Morpheus had already set his knife and fork neatly beside his plate by the time the question left his lips. His gaze remained fixed on Arabella, as uselessly observant as always, the way it always was when he sensed something amiss. If it had been any other morning, she would have met his question with a confident smile, sly, and layered with sarcasm that hinted she was always two steps ahead. Today, however, that familiar edge was dulled.
She still had her claws, of course. Arabella never truly lost them. But there was a quiet withdrawal about her that could not be ignored, a restraint in her posture and expression that stood out all the more because of how rare it was.
