Kian Jacobs was dressed casually. His hair was slicked back, but not with meticulous care, and a few stray strands fell across his forehead. He tilted his head, sizing up the old woman with a lazy expression, a kind of decadent languor about him.
But his eyes...
They were cold and sharp, filled with a chilling indifference.
"Kian," the old woman said, feeling needles on her back under his gaze. Joyce had just given her a scare, and her legs were already weak. Now, she felt even more unsteady on her feet.
"It was just the heat of the moment. You know how your mother and I are. If Joyce hadn't provoked me, why would I ever say such a thing?"
"What did Joyce say that made you so angry you spoke so rashly?" Kian Jacobs pressed.
His gaze was as sharp as an interrogator's questioning a criminal.
And his voice was deep and resonant.
