I woke in the darkness, reaching across the bed only to find Alaric's side empty and cold. Sitting up, I spotted his silhouette by the window, a shadow against the moonlight. His shoulders were rigid, hands clasped behind his back in that formal posture he adopted when troubled.
"Alaric?" I called softly.
He didn't turn immediately. "I didn't mean to wake you."
I slipped from the bed, wrapping my robe around me as I padded across the floor. "You didn't. But your absence did."
When I reached him, I placed a hand gently on his arm. The muscles beneath my fingers were tense, coiled like he was preparing for battle.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Nearly three in the morning."
"How long have you been standing here?"
He shrugged. "An hour. Perhaps two."
This wasn't the first night I'd found him like this in recent weeks. Something was weighing on him—something beyond the ordinary concerns of dukedom or fatherhood.
"You're thinking about your work again," I said. Not a question.
