Ronan sat in his dining hall with the lights dimmed, the heavy oak table drowning in scattered files and notes. The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to break his skull. Each second dragged longer than the last, a metronome to his exhaustion.
Grace slipped behind him like a shadow, her scent soft and steady, her silk robe brushing against his shoulder. She bent, pressing her lips lightly to the warm crook of his neck.
"Aren't you going to bed?" she whispered.
Ronan didn't look up. His pen scratched across paper, his jaw hard. "Not yet. Dominic said—"
"Enough."
The word cracked like lightning. She pulled away instantly, and the warmth of her lips vanished.
Ronan blinked, the pen falling silent in his hand. He turned just enough to see her face — sharp lines, blazing eyes.
"I hate the sound of his name," she spat. "Or anything that ties you to him."
