Butterflies

Azalea. “What do you mean?” Dante’s gaze narrowed on me. My cheeks warmed, and I pretended to find the food on the tray rather interesting. “Exactly what I said,” Mrs Lockwood persisted. “Use that and give the poor girl a hand massage. Goodness knows she needs it more than I do.” My eyes bulged as I turned to face Mrs Lockwood. “Oh, wait, what? No. That really isn’t necessary. I—” “Nonsense, dear,” Mrs Lockwood tutted. “Your hands are in a terrible state, and I hate to say it, but there is no way you can give your own hands a proper massage.” My lips parted in protest, but Dante’s large form already filled the space beside me. He cracked a smile as he stared at her. She stared back, her lips pursed and her expression ridden with warning, and no matter how hard he grinned or blinked his eyes in her direction, that glare of hers remained unwavering. If I wasn’t mistaken, I’d have sworn they were having a full-blown conversation without uttering a single word out loud. “Is that so?” he su