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To those who won’t admit they wish the love interest was the villain every time. I see you.
To claim something as his – a strike, a kill, a horn of ale – Ashwood tapped whatever he wanted three times.
The Sentry placed his palm against my cheek. I stiffened, eyes closed. But all he did was tap my face three times. Roark turned away in the next heartbeat and abandoned the hut. Pulse racing, I touched where Ashwood held his hand. Three taps – his gesture for claiming something as his. It meant mine.
‘The first son was given craft of bone – to heal, manipulate, or rot. The second son, the craft of souls – to protect, control, or destroy. The third, to the Wanderer’s only daughter, the craft of blood – to heal, disease, or summon.’
To harm the living, craft mirrors the pain. To split the soul, craft sacrifices the blood. To curse the body, craft devours the mind. To bind dead and living, craft corrupts the heart.
Your craft is rare, so it is misunderstood and hated, especially by Dravenmoor. But it is my duty to keep you breathing, so I will not let you slip into Salur yet.
‘You never truly know a heart until you see the darkness inside. I might like to see yours.’
Roark held my gaze and tapped his palm three times, then with care took my hand and placed it over his own chest. Emotion knotted in my throat. His. Mine. He was claiming my heart and giving me his.
On my bare spine, his fingers moved in deliberate patterns, and it took me a moment to realize he was repeating the same thing over and again. Yours, body and soul.
Roark took a step closer. I was supposed to despise you, hunt you. Instead, you’ve brought me to my knees, begging for more of you.
Break me, I no longer care, as long as it is you who wields the destruction.
