I want to kiss her. I burn to feel her lips on mine. To draw her to me, press her to my breast, to take everything I’ve been hungering for all these long, sorry months, all these damnable years, since the first moment I set eyes on her terrified face. But I can’t. I won’t.
There had better be a good explanation for all this chicanery; this book's worth depends on the motivations for Castien behaving like a clueless crumpet.
