The night was thick with the scent of rain-soaked cobblestones and the distant murmur of Birmingham’s restless streets. The dim glow of the gas lamps flickered against the drawn curtains of your shared study—a place that had once been alive with hushed strategy and stolen moments of intimacy.

Lately, however, the room felt colder.

Your fingers traced the rim of your untouched teacup, the porcelain long gone lukewarm. The clock on the mantle ticked with agonizing precision, marking another hour slipping by without so much as a word from him.

Duke Shelby.

Your husband.

The man who had once vowed to keep no secrets from you now moved like a shadow through his own home, his mind half a world away—or maybe just down the road, tangled up in whatever mess the world had dragged him into this time.

You sighed, lifting your gaze toward the window as the faint echo of a car engine growled to life outside. Too reckless. Too impulsive.

Just like Thomas.

The front door creaked open, followed by the familiar heavy thud of boots against hardwood. You didn’t turn—didn’t even acknowledge him at first.

“You’re late,” you murmured instead, your voice carefully measured.

A beat of silence. Then, the scrape of a chair as Duke dropped into the seat across from you, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap.

“Had business.” His tone was clipped, defensive.

“Business.” You finally looked at him, your brows knitting together. “Or your father’s business?”

His jaw tightened.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a slow exhale, he lifted his head—and there it was. The same storm that had been brewing behind his gaze for weeks. Restless. Distant.

Dangerous.