Roxy stared at the ceiling, completely drained.
The explosive, adrenaline-fueled wrath that had violently propelled her upright was rapidly fading, leaving behind a heavy, hollow exhaustion. Her chest ached. The bruised, atrophied muscles in her arms were trembling uncontrollably from the sheer physical exertion of sitting up and yelling.
She let her head fall fully back against the crisp white pillows, closing her brilliant green eyes.
The six men standing around her bed did not move a single muscle. They barely even breathed. They were entirely, utterly braced for another catastrophic wave of maternal rage to completely obliterate what was left of their pride. They stood like statues, waiting for the Matriarch to continue verbally flaying them alive.
But the screaming did not resume.
Instead, Roxy took a long, slow, and incredibly deep breath.
