A final stop to the day's tiring drama was the bedroom door clicking shut. Annabel was lying under the silk comforter like a still figure.
Her body tensed with a quiet simmering tension and she continued to squeeze her eyes tightly. On the dresser she heard a jacket being peeled off and the gentle clink of keys striking a wooden dish.
As he approached, the air in the room changed still heavy with the smell of Carson's day—old leather paper and a hint of cologne.
On the bed's edge a warm weight fell. She sensed the mattress dip and the slight temperature change. As he leaned over his soft recognizable breath drifted across her face.
His voice was a low murmur, more of a question than an order “Annabel?”
She didn't move. Like a statue, her breathing stayed steady and practiced. Behi
