No matter how hard or how loud her inner paranoid told her he couldn’t be trusted, the rest of her wasn’t listening. Her respiration slowed, lulled by hints of scents which had no place in a sickroom—sandalwood and ginger and the faintest trace of sweat. The longer she stood there and watched him breathe, waiting for her to act, accepting it…
Something fluttered, soft as feathered wings, inside her belly.
“Maggie?” he whispered.
Why did he have to say her name like it mattered?