The morning after, the discomfort smoldered in Isla’s chest.
And Damien was there by morning — quiet, calm, sliding back into bed with her as though nothing had happened. He had wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him with her head under, his face in her hair.
And for an instant, she allowed herself to think everything was all right.
But Isla had come to trust her instincts.
And they were screaming now.
Over coffee, Damien was different. Not cold exactly—but distant. His gaze dipped to hers too long, like he had something to say but couldn’t. As if he were burying it beneath layers of steel.
“You didn’t get much sleep,” she said warily, peering at him over the rim of her mug.
“You didn’t either,” he said easily, a half smile on his lips.
It was true.
She had tos
