This was the right thing.
And the thing about the right thing was that oftentimes it was the hardest thing, too.
She pushed off the bed, retrieved her robe and slid it onto her shoulders, then her feet padded across dense wool carpets the way they’d come, and she was gone.
And he was alone.
Alone with this knot that had formed in his chest.
It wasn’t a knot of anger, he realized.
It was sadness.
It was grief.
Grief for the loss of the child he and Artemis had created.
Grief for the loss ofthem.
Grief for the loss of his past self.
This grief … In all the last ten years, he’d never allowed himself to feel it.
But oh, he felt it now.
Could one grieve over happiness lost? A whole other life tossed aside like rubbish and not lived?
Yes.
And the future? The one he’d so very nearly held in his grasp? Was that lost, too?
If past predicted future, then the answer was clear—yes.
Every cell in his body rebelled against that answer and demanded he chase after Artemis and take her any way she would have him.
No.
He’d made the necessary decision—or hoped he had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DAWN
Bathsheba curled into a bun at her feet, Artemis stared unseeing through the library window.
He was gone.
Straight from his room, she’d come here, to the library’s overstuffed leather sofa positioned in front of the great window, for its unobstructed view of Somerton’s forecourt. At this early hour, no one else would be here when Bran made good on his promise and departed with Lady Gwyneth.
The carriage had disappeared around a bend in the gravel drive and out of view not a minute ago.
Or was it ten minutes ago … or thirty …
Time no longer held relevance.
The knot in her throat sat heavy and unresolved.
Without realizing it, she’d already begun counting on a future with Bran. It wasn’t a taking-for-granted, but as more than possibility—probability.
