At last, she slowly shook her head.
"No," Madam Beckett murmured. "He does not like it when others decide his fate."
She chose those words, fully aware of Ryley's hatred of having his fate decided by others, even as she quietly despised the sentiment itself.
She said them because fairness demanded it, not conviction.
If the pallor on his face meant the blond was nearing his end, then so be it.
She would leave him to whatever fate had already decided.
And yet...
Madam Beckett seemed unable to restrain her own subconscious from acting against what she believed was the most sensible decision regarding Ryley.
Almost every night, she instructed the head butler, Alan, to deliver warm herbal drinks to the blond—always carefully brewed.
Fur coats followed soon after, then came carefully selected meals, meant to ease anemic symptoms, sent under the guise of post-childbirth recovery.
