It seemed to Dylan that Tristan's anger was slow to fade. He sat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the cottage, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze firmly directed at the fireplace. The one or two tentative stabs she'd made at conversation had been closed down before they could begin and she'd retreated to the narrow, uncomfortable bed. She lay on her side, her arm the only pillow, and stared at his silhouette.

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