He didn't dare move until he was certain that she was gone. Her footsteps fading down the hall, likely back into their bedroom in search of their son.
Water poured down his back, scalding hot, but not nearly enough to burn her scent off his skin. She lingered there, everywhere. In the air, in the ache of his blood that was still racing too fast, in the ghost of her voice, whispering his name.
He had gone for a run after sunset, hoping the night air would quiet his thoughts. It hadn't. So he ran back and turned to combat drills with his men instead. They'd stared when he arrived, surprised to see him there at that hour. Since normally, he'd still be tangled in the sheets with his bride. But tonight, the ned to move, to fight, to forget had been unbearable.
He braced his palms against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut. But he could still see her. The towel clinging to her damp skin, the accusation in her voice, the flicker of fear she tried so hard to hide.
