Page 8 of Stolen Faith

Izabel took a seat on a padded stool in the center of the closet and slipped off her heels, placing them in a blank space on a shelf. Brennon passed the cape over when she held out her hand and watched as she hung it on a cedar hanger.

Izabel stood, and without the heels, a few inches of the long skirt of the elegant strapless red gown she’d worn to the symphony pooled on the floor. She gathered the skirt with one hand, reminding him of a princess—no, a queen—as she exited the closet.

They followed Izabel back into the living room. A grandfather clock in the dining room chimed once.

“One a.m.?” Brennon looked at his watch. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed since they’d left the symphony.

“Let me try to get hold of Rose, just so I know she’s okay. If you feel up for a nightcap, there’s an ice bucket on the bar.” She pointed to the corner where an elegant bar cart waited.

Brennon glanced at Rowan, and together they crossed to the bar. Rowan picked up the penguin-shaped bucket. “I’ll get the ice.”

Brennon picked up a bottle, reading the label. “What do you drink?”

Rowan snorted, a smile twitching his lips, but it was there and gone. “Whatever’s available.” He headed for the kitchen, penguin in hand.

Brennon put down the bottle he was holding, turning to the window to take a minute to breathe and think.

Last night, they’d stayed at the hotel and separated into their own rooms after those good-night kisses. He hadn’t let himself think about what would happen tonight. She’d put their luggage into the spare rooms rather than the closets, but tonight felt different, more intimate, than last night.

Tonight felt heavy with promise.

Brennon looked out at the city and smiled.

Chapter Three

What the hell was he doing here?

Rowan stared at the ice bucket, then around the kitchen. There was no refrigerator. He was sure there was one, but it had to be one of those fancy ones with a panel on the front that made it look like all the other kitchen cabinets.

He was so outclassed.

How could he explain to his future spouses that his perspective of this trinity was probably a hell of a lot different from Izabel’s and Brennon’s?

Even though he’d thought he was prepared, receiving that letter calling him to the altar had shaken Rowan in a way he hadn’t anticipated. When the invitation to join the Trinity Masters had arrived, he’d felt honored by the opportunity to be a part of something as big and important as the Army. It felt like a calling—just as joining the military had—like something that gave his life a higher purpose, and he’d jumped at the chance.

After all, he’d run through bullet spray, carrying an injured buddy on his back, flown his chopper through darkness so thick, he couldn’t see five feet in front of him, and traveled to war-torn countries most people wouldn’t want to be within five hundred miles of, all without batting an eye.

But when their names had been called at the altar, when Brennon and Izabel pushed down their hoods, Rowan had felt…uncertain, unsettled as the realization of what he’d committed to had finally sunk in. He’d been fighting to find his sea legs when Izabel had dragged him to that swanky engagement party last night, and then again tonight, when she’d whisked him off to the symphony.

The symphony, for God’s sake.

He shouldn’t have left the service. He should have stayed in and—

He cut that thought off and started opening large cabinet doors. He found a pantry with pullout shelves, a second pantry with fancy appliances, and finally the fridge. No freezer. Of course, she wouldn’t have a fridge-freezer combo like a normal poor person.

He gave up, set down the penguin, and started opening every door he could find.

The built-in under-counter ice machine was the fifth door he opened. It had three compartments, each with a different kind of ice.

Okay, that was cool. He filled the penguin with ball ice, popped its head back on, and carried it to the living room.

Izabel and Brennon were standing by the window, conversing quietly. They looked good together, both dark-haired, him just a little taller than her. Brennon wore a suit that fit him perfectly, and more importantly, he looked comfortable in it.

Rowan had rushed to buy a suit when he got the letter that he was being called to the altar. He hadn’t owned one before that because he didn’t need one. Every formal occasion he’d been invited to as an adult, he’d worn a dress uniform.

His new suit didn’t quite fit right; it was too loose around his midsection because he’d had to buy a size up so it would fit his shoulders, and there hadn’t been time for a tailor to take it in. This was his second night in a row wearing it, though he’d left the penthouse suite at the hotel earlier this morning while Izabel and Brennon were still sleeping to buy a new dress shirt and tie for the symphony. It was the same suit, but at least with a different shirt and tie, it looked different.

He set the ice bucket on the bar. Unsure what to do—a feeling he both hated and wasn’t used to—he started examining the bottles the way Brennon had.

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