The Floodlands I'm doing fine, trying to derail my one track mind

colt sat back at that, taking her in once more, a long drink of her willowy limbs and the way that the sprinkle of scarification spoke a story he perhaps wanted to read outside a bonfire one day. "looks t'me that i'd be the secret, sugar," briggs countered. no butterfly, this one, but a moth, a thing with strong wings and a deceptive strength beneath a velvet mien.
more to her than met his red eye.
when she wound forward again, he caught her with his foreleg, pulling her softly close, though not yet pressed to him. another test, and one he would relinquish if wren protested. "is this about secrets or about what yew were looking fer before?"