The voice that spoke held no hint of abnormality; it was magnetic and carried a steady, confident tone.
Amelia Clarke leaned weakly against his chest, her ear pressed to his solid torso, his heartbeat and his voice echoed into her cochlea.
That voice, inexplicably, comforted her.
The phone call seemed to be international, and Owen Moreland spoke in a language she couldn't understand.
After hanging up, he set his phone on a nearby shelf, kissed Amelia Clarke's cheek tenderly, and then released her, "Go to sleep."
Amelia Clarke touched her burning cheeks and hurriedly looked down as she left.
Owen Moreland's bedroom was simple and stylish, with monotonous and deep colors, exuding the aura of a single man everywhere.
The bedding on the bed was dark gray. Amelia walked over to it, and several books were neatly placed at the head of the bed. She picked them up and looked at them: two finance magazines, one book on economics, one on management, and one on psychology.
