A boy of fourteen stood in the doorway with his father's hazel eyes, and it was the first time Jocelynn had ever seen Owain's anger in Ashton's gaze. Worse, that fury was directed at her.
Four years. He'd been a little boy when she sent him away, and now he was taller than she was. His wrists stuck out of his sleeves like he'd recently outgrown his tunic. And there, at the edge of his left eyebrow, was a thin white scar, providing a constant reminder of the injury that gave her the determination to put him on the road to Blackwell.
"Ashton," Jocelynn said, rising from her seat next to her father. "Darling, I…"
"Don't call me that." Ashton's voice cracked. "You don't get to call me that. You sent me away."
"I sent you here to keep you safe," Jocelynn said, frowning at her son. He should understand this. She hadn't hidden her reasons from her father, and Ashton was old enough to know the truth by now. "Ashton, I…"
