This was still inconceivable to him, that he’d confessed to dreaming of her night after night; that for eight agonizing months he’d known the taste, the heat, the silk of her in his sleep. Nothing more than an attack of madness could’ve driven him to such a state. He’d been painfully fatigued, still under the fading influence of dark magic, his mind and body not fully recovered from the devil’s most recent assaults. It was the only excuse he had, that he’d been broken—his locks unbolted by shock, his weak body pushed over the edge by her tenderness. At any other hour in his life he’d have been
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