Foggy Bottom Way [m] las estrellas

hell seemed to yawn beneath silvertongue for long, tearing moment as crowfeather denied her. the breath that rose now choked, dissolved in her throat; pulse pounded. he insisted this was him, that he wanted to desire her but — "nothing is wrong with you," silvertongue insisted a moaning hiss, raising languid forearm to touch his face now, bring it truly toward her own. "if you were not fit to love, i would not have — i would not love you beyond everything else. everything." the sharpfang felt him fading from her, withdrawing; she pressed ankle to mouth and found she was crying, salt running across the edge of her lips; "you cannot love me. this does not make you unfit." what vestiges of her remained, given to assure; he could not. he would not; he could not, and a cold serenity settled into silvertongue, shielding her for a time from the pending sense of horrified shame waiting to fall upon her bowed head.