Bewitching Rhaego (Clecanian, #8)

by Victoria Aveline

there was something insidious about insecurity sown during youth. The roots were deep. They burrowed into young spongy bone and grew alongside their host, hardening and aging until there was no distinguishing between what was natural and what was planted.

“Ah,” she gasped in mock offense, straightening and slapping a hand to her cleavage. “You fever-stricken heathen! How dare you notice how revealing these dresses that you picked for me are.”

He could not be unworthy. Because she was divine. And he was hers.