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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.
A word meaning a dozen things—his to command, his to use, his to protect. It didn’t matter, there was truth to it. Since the moment he stepped foot on the pebbled shores of Skalfirth until he turned me over to the king, I belonged to Roark Ashwood.
One of his palms slid between the cleft of my breasts. 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.
