Alaric removed his gloves with methodical care.
Leather slid free from his fingers, leaving faint impressions along his knuckles—scratches from reins pulled too hard, skin scraped where he had not noticed the blow until later. He placed the gloves on the table beside the door, aligned them neatly, then reached for the clasp at his shoulder.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
He shrugged out of his riding coat and hung it on its hook, smoothing the fabric as if it mattered. The act was habitual, drilled into him since youth: order imposed upon chaos, even when the chaos had already passed.
Only when he turned away did the tremor in his hands reveal itself.
Alaric clenched his fists, forcing stillness.
The image came back unbidden.
The snap of leather.
The scream of metal under strain.
The sudden, sickening tilt of her body as the saddle slid loose.
He shut his eyes.
