“You will?” A run with Greylen? In all her life she never really thought she’d find someone to share everything with. She’d imagined it, of course. She’d hoped for it, like deep down in that magical place where fantasy lived. But to actually feel it and live it. Wow.

“Aye,” he confirmed, taking her hands to bring them to his lips so he could kiss the palm of each. “Tell me the way of it.”

“It’s simple, Greylen. You run.”

“You call that exercise?” he teased.

“Don’t knock it, you might like it,” she muttered, squeezing his hands.

“I’ll just be a moment. Should I wear the new shoes in the wardrobe?”

“Yes, and comfortable pants. And one of those knit shirts,” she added, excited that he was joining her.

Gwen heard him a few minutes later. Her mouth fell open as he came down the stairs. Crap! How in the hell was she supposed to run next to that? He looked way too good. With every step he took, his muscles flexed clearly beneath the thin material of the clothes he wore.

She was screwed.

“Problem?” he asked, as if noting her expression.

“Nope,” she replied quickly.

“You lie, wife.” He grinned, wrapping his arm around her waist and bringing her in close. “And not very well.”

“Trust me, Greylen, you’ll never know.”

“Gwendolyn,” he drawled. “You know I have ways to make you talk,” he warned against her lips.

“Hold that thought,” she whispered. “You can extract the truth from me later.”

“You’re insatiable, wife,” he said as he opened the doors. He nodded to the guards who stood outside, then followed her down the stairs.

“Ready?” she asked, eyes bright and filled with joy.

“Aye,” he replied.

There was something in his eyes, something she’d come to notice when they spoke. This softening in his features in response to her, as if he’d do anything for her. It was unmistakable, and, honestly, she felt the same. He paced her as they jogged through the gates and down the path that separated the cottages from the practice fields. She started getting warm as they headed toward the lake and took off her shirt, tossing it to the ground.

Greylen cursed as he looked at her. She could only imagine what he must be thinking. It really wasn’t much different from what she would’ve worn back home, shorts and a sports bra. So what if it was a homemade halter and something close to joggers pushed low on her hips and the hem cuffed to her knees. He cursed again. Poor baby.

“Take your shirt off, Greylen, you’ll feel much better.” He pulled it off but held it in his hand. “Drop it, we’ll get ’em on the way back.”

“I swear, Gwendolyn, if this is your normal habit,” he warned as he glared at her, “my men are dead.”