The change in Callan was immediate. It wasn’t a dramatic sudden tension, and no visible discomfort, but Alex felt it all the same. There was subtle straightening of his spine, the way his hand left her waist a second sooner than it otherwise might have, the quiet recalibration of a man who had just been pulled back into a role he never fully stepped out of.
Control. Always control.
Alex turned fully to face the woman who had just dismantled the moment without raising her voice.
Up close, the Ashford matriarch was even more formidable. Age had not softened her, it had refined her. Every line in her face spoke of experience rather than weakness, every movement precise and deliberate, as though nothing she did was ever without intention. Her gaze, when it settled on Alex again, was not op
