Eridanys smiled—Alba heard it in his breath—pulling away to look at him before kissing the roots of Alba’s hair where the silver strands grew. Not in affection so much as—possession. Alba was owned, accounted for by something of the sea, and Eridanys was clearly satisfied with knowing he was the one who placed the mark. It compelled Alba to rake fingers through Eridanys’ hair in return, frowning as there was no ginger-red streak to match.
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