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He takes her chin between his fingers, digging his talons into her putrid flesh. Then, to my horror, he bends down and kisses her. Kisses her right on her bloody lips, a long, slow, lazy sort of kiss. Almost sensual. He does it so casually, one cannot help suspecting he’s done it many times before. When he withdraws, Idreloth flutters her eyelashes up at him. But there’s murder in her gaze.
Like all fae, he is far more dangerous to love than to hate.
“Of course. Nothing is impossible. Just expensive.”
To know every part of her and, in the knowing, to bind her to me.
“To really love someone is to be willing to give them up. To know they are free to make their own choices, for better or for worse. To allow them that freedom. To let go . . . even if it means watching them fall.”
I freeze. Just for a moment, a mere instant of breath. But in that fraction of time and space, a whole lifetime’s worth of longing threatens to overwhelm me. 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.
