Thursday
Cameron reached over to the bedside lamp and turned it on, bathing them with a golden glow. He sat up, his back to her, his legs over the end of the bed, and his feet on the floor. The muscles of his back shifted, displaying the power of years of active manual labour, and his biceps bunched as he ran his hands through his hair, ruffling the russet curls.
“Maybe Rhett’s right,” he said under his breath.
“About what?” She asked wearily. She was done, just done with the day, she thought. She hurt in so many ways and places and felt as if Rhett had stripped her raw of every belief in her freedom. Her heart was an open, weeping wound.
“Maybe, we do need to… just break the rules and talk. He’s told us, time and time again, that you’re not… That you’re…” He struggled to say it. “No
