When the Moon Hatched (Moonfall, #1)

by Sarah A. Parker

smoky musk pinched with the smell of freshly split stone, softened with notes of something buttery.

For the first time since Fallon taught me speech, I’m lost for words. He’s harshly chiseled, raw . . . fiercely beautiful. My lungs pull full of his scent, so deep and drugging, like smelted stone topped with a ladle of cream. I hold the breath hostage, taking him in, admiring his black hair that falls just past his shoulders. It’s half pulled back off his face that’s partially shadowed by a few loose strands failing to soften his regard, his piercing eyes the rich molten color of fired wood. His brows are thick, the lower half of his face shaded by a dark beard that adds a rugged texture to his already robust appearance. Like he belongs in one of the renowned warrior clans that took root amongst the Boltanic Plains millions of phases ago, wielding an ax and a bloodlusting roar.