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“Excuse me?”

I hold out my hand.

“The message.”

She stares at my outstretched palm.

Then slowly sets the telephone on the table.

“No.”

The word lands between us.

Small.

Firm.

Unmistakable.

I lower my hand.

“Someone is frightening you.”

“And I said I can handle it.”

“Then why are you trembling?”

“Because I’m human!” she snaps. “We do that sometimes.”

She stands and heads toward the kitchen.

I follow.

“Tell me his name.”

“No.”

“Wren.”

She spins around.

“Stop saying my name like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s an order!”

I stop.

Her chest rises and falls beneath her little pink dress. Her eyes shine with anger, but beneath it lies something far worse.

Fear of me.

Not because I have raised a hand against her.

Not because I would ever allow myself to.

But because I have forgotten that power can frighten even when it intends to protect.