Zylan's face darkened, his jaw tightening as Naomi's words replayed in his mind. The thought of her being drugged gnawed at his insides like a persistent, festering wound. His piercing gaze bore into her, scrutinizing every movement, every flicker of emotion.
"Eaglet," he finally said, his voice sharp enough to cut through steel. "Who gave you the alcohol?"
The silence between them stretched taut, vibrating with tension. Naomi met his gaze, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The weight of his question, his tone—it all bore down on her like a crushing wave.
But she didn't falter. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him with a defiance that matched the fire burning in her chest.
"Why does it matter if I drink or not?" she snapped, her voice quivering, betraying the conflict raging inside her. The memory of their earlier argument clung to her, a raw wound that hadn't yet begun to heal.
