The Guardian began walking across the sand, dragging a hand through his wet hair and pushing it away from his face. His large hand pulled the water from his beard. His tunic, the same cream fabric as my own, was nearly transparent. It molded to the strength of his chest, to the contours of his rippled stomach. A warmth spread through my belly, pooling lower. Oh, gods, no. I forced my eyes forward, clenching my fists and molars. Yes, he was attractive, but I could not—would not—let a handsome face and body carved from stone distract me from my task. That man was a murderer. I refused to allow a
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