but not for the woman sharing the bed with him. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if Gurn had locked away his already decimated bottle of Peleta’s Fire. If he couldn’t find surcease in a prostitute’s willing body, he’d find it in the oblivion of another bout of drunkenness. He glanced at Anya when she rose on one elbow and hovered over him. The longer he gazed, the less she looked like Martise, and the spell was still firmly in place. Her eyes were sympathetic, but the soul behind them was not Martise’s. “May I speak?” He nodded. She took his hand, pressed his palm against her cheek. “She is
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Fuck this guy what a fucking bastard ihatw him
