Kade knew who it was before he even got to his feet. Even through the closed door, her scent called to him—warm, sweet, utterly intoxicating. His instincts howled. In an instant, his chair scraped back, boots pounding against the stone as he shoved the door wide. Ava followed close behind, her eyes widening when she saw the mess in the hall.
They found her standing there surrounded by the wreck of the lunch she had made with her own hands. The sting of tears clung to her lashes, trembling, unshed.
Kade's chest caved with guilt, a storm of regret tightening around his throat. He had wanted to protect her, not wound her. He had wanted to be her anchor, not her executioner. But her eyes—glistening, wet, betraying every ounce of betrayal she felt—told him the truth.
She had heard.
The question was, which part really?
