He’d all but told Althea Zoltaire that he loved her, that she, the lost heir of Delmira, the living storm, owned him mind, body and broken soul. That his cold, weary heart was hers, if she would have it. But he didn’t let those words fall from his lips. Instead, he tried to capture them in every kiss, every touch as they stumbled back to the palace, tangled in one another like teenagers, consequences be damned. He drank in her sea-salt-and-bergamot scent like it was a drug and he was an addict. Gods, he could feel the tempest building in her, his own unique magic answering its call with power
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