I’d recognize those slender ebony fingers anywhere. Those fingers used to hold my hand as we ran barefoot through the potsava fields. They dragged me away from an ash-burrower nest filled with newborn monsters. There’s a pink scar across the back of the dark right hand—my first healing attempt, imperfect. And those fingers were the first ones to nudge between my legs and tease me into a throat-searing, back-arching climax. Rince is the portrait-maker. Rince is here.
