Darcy was used to people looking past her.
Hell, she’d made an art form of it—avoiding the busybodies, doing what she wanted with her life.
And for the most part it worked.
She got to do what she wanted, when she wanted because people left her alone.
Unfortunately, there was one person who had decided to ignore the No Entry signs and barbed wire that made most people keep their distance as he barreled his way through her peaceful existence.
Morgan was one of the strongest soldiers protecting her people, but he seemed to live to press her buttons, to infuriate her, to drive her absolutely to the edge of reason. That was his art form, and he was excellent at it.
Still, Darcy was stubborn and would not be worn down. She wouldn’t let anyone in, least of all Morgan.
But then . . . he gave her the letter.