“Comforting. The faint scent of parchment. Fresh, like dew in the morning. Though sweet.” He licked his lips, his sharp canines flashing in the low light. “Edible, like freshly plucked marigold.” “Marigold? Are you saying you want to eat me, Finndryl?” “Something like that,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as his eyes, dark with longing, locked onto hers, revealing the depths of his desire.
