I tiptoed back out, though this time the house wasn’t still. That energy hummed. Alive. I followed it to the doorway of the bedroom where I’d slept. Ryder was in the room, wearing the same pair of gray sweatpants he’d had on last night, though he’d pulled on a tee-shirt. I couldn’t tell if I was mourning the travesty or breathing a sigh of relief. My stomach fisted at the sight of him, so rough and menacingly beautiful. The angles of his face sharp and hewn in severity. His lips so red. A cool, dark king. But it was the sight of him lifting my son from the playpen that contracted my chest in a
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