Page 123 of Shadow

And that terrified her.

But as she stared out into the darkness, she considered that maybe her mother’s mistake hadn’t been loving her father. Maybe the mistake had been not forgiving him. Not making peace with the choices he’d made.

Maybe loving someone who made dangerous choices was still better than not loving at all.

She didn’t know.

Just knew that sitting here, watching Destiny and thinking about Asher and remembering the way his lips had felt against hers, Daphne was done fighting it.

True love like that only happens once.

Don’t waste it.

Hold on to it.

Yes.

But for now—for these dark hours before dawn—Destiny needed her more.

So Daphne stayed. Kept watch. And let herself hope.

Hope that caring didn’t have to end in destruction.

Hope that Asher Morrison was worth the risk.

Even if the risk was everything.

For now—she’d hope.

And that was enough.

Twelve

Asher didn’t know what he thought about Destiny and Roger’s argument, but something woke him up in the recliner at five a.m., and it wasn’t just the crick in his neck.

He was missing something.

And Roger certainly wasn’t going to help him. The man had gone to his room and locked the door. And no amount of knocking had gotten him to open it again.

So Asher had checked the house. Checked the perimeter. Checked the security cameras. Made sure they were still safe. Made sure no threats had breached the property.

Then he’d stood outside Daphne’s door. Hand raised to knock. Ready to tell her that he knew more than he was saying.

But it was nearly three a.m., and they’d had a crazy day, and waking her to unload eighteen months of lies felt selfish.

So he’d gone back downstairs. Sat in the recliner. Told himself he’d tell her in the morning.

And despite his best intentions, had fallen asleep thinking about how she fit into his arms.

Now, gray dawn light filtered through the windows, the house quiet. He sat up. His entire body felt wrung out and dragged along the pavement.

He made coffee, no sugar, no cream, black as diesel fuel, and poured it into a travel mug. Pulled on boots and a jacket. Went outside.

He loved the ranch this early in the morning. Mist rising from the creek. Mountains dark against a sky turning from gray to gold. Air cold and sharp with the scent of sage and pine and earth.

This place. This representation of the man he’d wanted to be.

He spotted movement by the barn. Duke was already up. He liked the man—the kind of man who could fix anything with his hands and needed very few words to communicate. He’d been working this land for thirty years, from back when it was owned by Clint Waverly and ran three hundred head of cattle. A working ranch instead of a ranch that leased out hunting rights.