The walk back to the villa felt endless. Neither Micah nor Darcy spoke, their footsteps crunching over the gravel path in stiff rhythm. The air between them was heavy, stretched thin by the words Darcy hadn't been able to say and the ones Micah had refused to let him voice.
Darcy's expression darkened, his throat burning with all the questions he couldn't ask. He glanced sideways once and twice, but Micah looked ahead, never met his eyes.
Darcy replayed that look in his mind. He kept seeing that flicker of pain in Micah's eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he had begged him to stop.
Why had Micah looked like that? Why so torn?
He didn't know how to interpret it. Should he think Micah was rejecting him without saying a word? But why the hesitation? Why the painful look?
Should he think Micah had feelings for him but couldn't be with him? Why not? Because he was Ramsy's son? Or because of Clyde?
Darcy's mind spun, grasping at answers that refused to come.
