After spending a quiet hour beside Pandora's bedside, Nathan finally stood and left her to rest. Her grip on his wrist had loosened gradually, her eyes fluttering closed from exhaustion rather than peace. He lingered for a moment longer beside the bed, studying her face in that half-light—the faint rise and fall of her chest, the fragile line of her body beneath the silk covers, and the faint shimmer of silver strands that spilled over the pillow.
Worry tugged at him even as he turned to leave. He knew what awaited once she regained her full strength—the inevitable storm of emotion, the renewed fixation that might become dangerous if left unchecked. But for now, that was a problem for the future. He had taken the first step to prepare her, to gently plant in her mind the understanding that he would not—could not—belong entirely to her. His life carried other promises, other lives tethered to it, and Pandora, however much she might want him, would eventually have to face that truth.
