The car ride from the main house to the clinic wing was barely three minutes, but Lucas hated every second of it. He sat angled toward the window, coffee forgotten in the cupholder, eyes fixed on the immaculate sweep of the gardens as though the roses and trimmed hedges could answer the questions grinding against his ribs. His fingers drummed once, then stilled. The platinum band on his hand glinted whenever sunlight cut through the trees, a reminder of the promises they had made and the ones he feared might still break.
Trevor's hand never left him. From the moment Windstone guided them out of the manor, through the brief walk to the car, and now across the leather seat, Trevor's palm rested steady on his thigh. The cedar of his pheromones pulsed slow and even, wrapping around Lucas's body until the worst of the tension uncoiled from his muscles, even if his mind refused to quiet.
