From the safety of Maxton's arms, Priscilla peered at me with mock innocence. "Maxton, Solana says she's not feeling well. If she truly can’t drink, I’ll drink instead. I can just go to the hospital for an IV afterward," she murmured pitifully.
Maxton’s grip on my wrist tightened painfully, his gaze sharp and merciless. "Look at Priscilla, then look at yourself," he sneered. "It’s just a few drinks. Will it kill you?"
His words cut deeper than his harsh grip, which had turned my wrist red. My struggles only seemed to amuse him further. "Solana, I’m giving you face here. Do you still think you’re some kind of saint? You’ve already lost a child; who else would want you, this worthless piece of trash? Be good and drink for Priscilla. You know I still need you."
Sensing the fury in Maxton’s expression, Priscilla clutched his hand with trembling fingers. "Maxton, please don’t be angry. Solana might still resent me. It’s my fault for being thoughtless. If you’re upset, blame me for being useless and failing to help you," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.
As her sobs grew louder, Maxton released my wrist and turned to wipe her tears, his earlier anger melting into concern.