He bent, ghosting his lips across Freddie’s knuckles. An antiquated gesture. One that made her hand tingle as if she’d stuck it in a bush full of nettles. He lifted his gaze to find hers. His eyes weren’t black, as she’d originally thought, but a deep velvety brown. Her heartbeat stuttered. The world spun around them, Lord Graylocke—Tristan—her only anchor.
