“I felt you,” he said, low enough that only she would hear. “I know you touched me.” Impossible. He’d been dosed with laudanum. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Not me.” “It was. It was you,” he said, softly, advancing on her with slow, predatory grace. “You think I would forget your touch? You think I wouldn’t know it in the darkness? I would know it in battle. I would walk through fire for it. I would know it on the road to hell. I would know it in hell, which is where I’ve been, aching for it, every day since you left.”
