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... from deep in her throat.

"She hates you," Nia muttered as she paced the edge of the room. "And I don’t care how sweet she tries to sound, or how often she wears lace and perfume to mask it—she hates you."

Jasmine sat back against her pillows, eyes closed, hands resting over the soft swell of her stomach.

"Nia," she murmured. "Please."

"I mean it," Nia continued, her boots tapping softly against the wooden floor. "You saw the way she looked around the room like she ...

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