20
Any hopes that Harlow’s bouts of insomnia were a thing of the past were dashed that night. She’d read for a while, trying to forget that the laughter and conversation she could hear coming from downstairs involved a man who may wish her family harm.
In truth, his potentially nefarious motives weren’t why her ears were piquing at every sound. She liked it. It tore her up, but she liked knowing that he was near. It was insane. She couldn’t trust the man. She shouldn’t trust him.
Except now that the shock was subsiding, Harlow was coming to terms with the fact that the man whom she’d thought was dead was actually alive.
Ryske, who she’d cried and ached for, was alive.
She’d been in bed with her lights off by the time she heard Jean showing Ryske to the larger of the guest rooms, which
