Zethan was silent—calm, in fact. Too calm.
She searched his face, waiting for a reaction, but he gave none. His gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable, almost distant. The weight of his silence pressed down on her chest, suffocating.
Then, without a word, he moved.
Her heart skipped.
That feeling—unsettling, intrusive—crawled under her skin like an unwelcome whisper. She hated it. She hated the way her body still reacted to him despite everything. It made her feel weak, vulnerable. But no, she wouldn't allow that. She had to be stronger, and had to remember who she was and what she deserved.
She forced herself not to think of Ava. Ava, the woman carrying his child.
It didn't matter how she felt about Zethan anymore. The moment a child was involved, things changed. She had to respect that. More importantly, she had to respect herself.
So why was her pulse racing as he took another step?