Well? Eve twirled spaghetti around her fork as she stared at Claire. How is it?
Ohfantastic, Claire said, with so much enthusiasm she knew nobody was fooled. She sighed. Im sorry. Its just
Eve pointed above their heads. The dean of the drama department?
Michael looked up at her, and for a second Claire saw the blue of his eyes flicker. Hes got his reasons, he said. Let it go, Eve.
Pardon me, but that boy can make a paper cut seem like a mortal wound. . . .
I said let it go. Michael snapped it this time, and there was unmistakable command in his voice. Eve stopped twirling spaghetti. Stopped doing everything except watching him with narrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes.
Lets review, she said, and put the fork carefully down on a napkin. You got all pa and decided you were too busy to go to the store. Next, Shane threw a tantrum and stomped up to his room to put on a one-man pity party. And now youre ordering me around like you own me. Are we under a testosterone storm warning?
Eve.
Im not finished. You may think that growing a pair of fangs makes you the boss around here, but youd better check your playlist. Youre on the seriously wrong track.
Eve. Michael leaned forward, and Claire caught her breath. His eyes were all wrong, his movements too fast, and she caught a flash of teeth that were too white, too sharp.
Eve pushed her chair back from the table, picked up her bowl, and walked into the kitchen without a backward glance.
Michael put his head in his hands. Christ, what just happened?
Claire swallowed. She tasted nothing but metal, as if shed tried to chew the fork instead of the food. Her whole body felt cold, aching with the need to do . . . Something.
She took Michaels bowl, stacking it with her own. Ill clean up, she said.
Michaels hand closed around her wrist. She didnt dare look up at him. At close range, she didnt want to see the changes in his eyes, the ones Eve had seen so clearly.