As promised by Grandpa August, Nash was allowed back in the house, and to everyone’s surprise, he didn't create a scene. He was subdued, almost unnervingly so, putting all his attention on his work and nothing else. However, every time our paths crossed, his eyes would follow me, dotingly, with an expression that held too much stubborn promise.
One afternoon, when we crossed paths alone near the rarely used west wing staircase, he stopped me. He reached out and gently took my hand, his touch sending a sickening jolt of familiar warmth through me.
“I won't let you go,” he promised, his voice soft and low, the tone he used only for me. “I will get to the bottom of whatever is going on, and I will fix us.”
I frowned and pried my hands open, the intimacy of his touch making me feel trapped.
