She studied the tattoo snaking down the side of his face and neck, vanishing into his dark clothes. I am your mate. She had wanted to believe him, but this dream, this illusion she’d been spun … Not an illusion. He had come for her. Rowan. Rowan Whitethorn. Now Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, her husband and king-consort. Her mate. She mouthed his name. He had come for her. Rowan. Silently, so smoothly that not even the white wolf awoke, she sat up, a hand clutching the cloak that smelled of pine and snow. His cloak, his scent woven through the fibers.
OMG she’s finally registering that it’s really him 🥹
