“Shake hands with his highness, Emma,” Sanders said, his voice low, but principal stern.
“No. He’s a punk.”
The tiny face turned up to his was defiant, the blue eyes both old and young. Against his will Rafiq felt a smile twitch the edges of his mouth. The small spitfire saw it and her eyes narrowed even more.
“Emma!”
“Leave us,” Rafiq said.
Sanders looked worried. “I’m not sure…”
Rafiq arched a brow. “What exactly aren’t you sure about, Mr. Sanders?”
“I’m not afraid of him,” the small spitfire said.
Rafiq’s other brow arched. With a sweeping motion, he indicated the door to the man.
“I’ll just be out here…”
Neither of them looked as he left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Their gazes were locked in a non-verbal battle.
“A punk?” Was she Ellie’s child? It had been
