The sight that met her eyes in the little blue-painted room made them widen. Tavvy was in his crib, his small hands cluthing the bars, cheeky bright red from screaming. Drusilla stood in front of the crib, a sword —Angel knew where she’d gotten it—clutched in her hand; it was pointed directly at Emma. Dru’s hand was shaking enough that the point of the sword was dancing around; her braids stuck out on either side of her plump face, but the look in her Blackthorn eyes was one of steely determination: Don’t you dare touch my brother.
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