Sterling’s gaze fluttered over me as if he were trying to comprehend my words.

“What?” he asked, the scent of whiskey thick on his breath.

“Louisa’s in labor.”

He took a step back and ran his hand through his hair. “That food you said you made?”

“It’s in the kitchen.”

He looked around the office. “Shit, I’m sorry, Araneae. I thought we were here for the night.”

“Sterling, tell me what’s wrong.” I ...