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Surely, Mitchel had whispered his grievances into Shelby’s ear.

Hadn’t he?

What sort of man befriended Mitchel Danforth and emerged unscathed?

She had been wrong, however.

The truth was, it had been easier to see Shelby as an adversary. Easier than acknowledging he hadn’t inflicted the wounds. That the real betrayal belonged to Mitchel. That anger clouded her judgment, twisting the truth and keeping her from seeing the real Shelby.

A serious, kind, compassionate man with a rigid sense of honor.

Love and hate—cruel siblings, never far from each other—always taunting, harassing, and tormenting the other. Hadn’t she learned that hatred often masks love, disguising the heart’s deepest longing beneath a veil of defiance?

She had detested Shelby because she had loved him—her enemy and nemesis. And she had loved him because—heaven help her—she had never truly been able to hate him at all. The sharp words, the stony stares, the defiant silence—all armor and protection. A brittle shell against the longing she forbade herself to feel.

Now, she could not deny her feelings—did not want to deny them.

Roxina’s thoughts drifted to an alternate life—a quiet cottage on the outskirts of a modest village, where Shelby and she might have nurtured a small family. Warm afternoons spent in gentle conversation, children’s laughter mingling with the rustle of hedgerows, evenings illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

In that vision, every shared smile and whispered word spoke of contented simplicity, a life woven together by mutual care and understanding. How different could it have been if she had embraced that tender possibility rather than pushed it away with pride and defiance?

Had she built a wall of resentment that imprisoned her happiness?

She released a controlled breath through her nose.

Shelby would never come.

No more waiting, no more pretending.

It was time to move on.

She turned her focus away from the road as Dash released a rough rumble.

“Dash,” she murmured, not bothering to look up. “Hush. The hare only wants a snack.”

His body remained rigid.

Another growl followed, this time laced with warning.

A voice, hoarse and feeble, disrupted the garden’s tranquility.

“Hello, Roxina.”

Mitchel.

The air lodged in her throat, choking her.

Slowly, not wanting to believe her ears, she looked behind her.

Barely able to stand, Mitchel wavered in the garden’s entrance, swaying like a man who had spent too long at sea. Gaunt, pale, eyes sunken into hollow sockets, he more closely resembled a specter than a man.

The scent of fresh greenery curled in the morning air, but beneath it, another odor intruded—sour sweat, unwashed skin, and the pungent mustiness of illness and neglect.

A frantic rabbit darted across the garden path, its fluffy white tail bouncing before it vanished into the tangled undergrowth along the wall.

Nostrils twitching, Dash flicked his ears as his gaze remained locked on the intruder.

“Mitchel?”