After confirming from Susan that Modred had been taken care of—that the dead fellow had been deposited in his house, everything arranged meticulously to look like a heart attack—Zane descended into a state of restlessness again, remaining in the smaller living room of the Thornes' mansion, nursing a cup of whiskey alone.
His hands itched for something to do, fingers drumming against the glass before stilling; his mind wheeled endlessly with ways he could be of help—either silently in the background or loudly at the forefront—to Gianna.
He swallowed a huge gulp of the brown liquid, the burn clawing down his throat as he sniffed sharply, trying to hold back his feelings.
Gianna.
She didn't want his help, didn't want anything to do with him. He could understand that—logically, rationally—but it didn't mean he was finding it easy to take in.
