When dawn broke outside the window and teased Grant’s lids with gentle fingers of light, he covered Patience with her cape and carried her to her room. Slipping her gown the rest of the way down her hips, he pulled her chemise up to cover her, and settled her in her big bed without waking her.
A sharp, biting regret that he could not climb in beside her, take her into his arms, and lose himself in peaceful oblivion—tonight, every night—chased Grant down the stairs like doom nipping his heels. And as he opened the front door, he vehemently denied the shifting of a deep-rooted principle within him, a tenet subtle, yet grave, but impossible to define.
Strangely, he was as glad he could not define it as he was that the shift had come.
Did the hope of new beginnings beckon?
Or was he set on a collision course that could ruin him?