Lorraine stayed still, her eyes tracing the dark corners of the room. Nothing stirred, no sound but the soft rustle of wind beyond the window, no shadow that moved but the faint flicker of the dying candle. Everything was as it should be. And yet her heart thudded too fast, a wild, uneven rhythm that made her breath catch.
It wasn't the room. It wasn't the night. It was her.
The unease was inside her, quiet but unyielding. That mistrust, faint as a scar beneath new paint. She had buried it, covered it with tenderness and whispered forgiveness, but it lived still, waiting for the dark to make itself known again.
She rolled toward Leroy. He was fast asleep, his face softened in the candle's dim glow. Even as she moved, his arm adjusted, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, his palm settling on the small of her back. A gentle rub, unconscious, protective.
Her throat tightened. Even in sleep, he reached for her. Even after everything.
And still, she feared.
