The sun that streamed in behind the curtains was soft-close that morning—but never in the Blackwood house.

Leya woke up early or hadn't slept. Her body was too used to the pain, cold sheets, and dreams. She stretched out on the bed, running cold motions through her hair with the movement slower than vanity than habit.

She'd returned from their St. Delacroix yesterday afternoon. She'd been disappointed more than she'd wanted to be by the "anonymous" gift report.

She'd have to strain to ...