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Summary
A deep unease settled within Sam’s core, breaths of moistened air gasped and stolen more than they were indulged and savored. He sauntered, hands shoved deep in his pockets, on grass lined pavement, where blades lay sharp and overgrown. They then peeked out of their confines and joined him there, out on the sidewalk, bringing company to early morning solitude.
Perhaps that is why he enjoyed the manor’s outskirts, he mused, bottom lip worried between his teeth. These areas, so raw and unfiltered, thrived free from attentive staff and uniformity and pesky shears. Mr. Lamb would have a fit about it, no doubt, but it was during those very fleeting, stolen moments that Sam truly came to life.
In which Sam Bourbon thinks. That's never good.