Sonia cut her off. “This isn’t even nice.”
It wasn’t nice, them using her parents against her.
Though what Regan said was true. Her father was always trying to talk her mother out of dressing her in pink and he was always buying clothes for her that were blue. It was a silly little argument that they bickered about good-naturedly the entire, albeit heartbreakingly short, life she’d led with them in it.
No one could know that from doing research on her.
Sonia had even forgotten it.
“You haven’t aged a day from that picture,” Sonia accused.
Regan took in a breath and replied, “Our people age slowly.”
She could say that again.
Regan moved slightly closer and pressed emotionally deeper. “Every Sunday, Lassiter made you pancakes in the shapes of stars.”
Sonia’s heart clutched.
Now, really. How did she know that?
No one could know that.
Except her father and mother and both of them were dead.
Sonia scuttled back on the bed, whispering, “Stop it.”
Regan’s voice grew sad and fond when she said, “Cherise told me your favorite book was The Giving Tree.”
“Stop.”
“She said she read it to you night after night.”
“Stop.”
“It was the only book you wanted to hear.”
Sonia felt the edge of the bed and halted, staring at the woman.
Her eyes had gone tawny.
And it hit her, belatedly, that that wasn’t natural, eyes that changed like that. No one’s eyes did that. It was one thing for the hue to change, say, if you were wearing a certain color. But for the color to change completely? To that attractive but inexplicable shade which was not from nature or any nature that Sonia knew?
And it wasn’t natural for dream men to come alive.
That didn’t happen. To anyone.
Ever.
Her gaze slid through the ensemble – all inordinately tall, all dark, all gorgeous, all with clear, intelligent eyes. Just like Waring last night.
Just like Callum.
Holy cow.
These people weren’t like her people.
These people were of a different culture. They belonged to a secret sect of society who lived alongside humans.