Boartusk Heights vengaza es dulce

Qvasir had felt her presence long before she fell into step beside him—the faintest trace of berry-juice mingling with the earthen tones that clung to her. He did not glance down at first, allowing her quiet deference to remain unchallenged. Yet, as her scent deepened in his awareness, he could not ignore the curious weight of her silence.

When he finally turned his head, his gaze swept over her with an expression that hovered between curiosity and amusement. She was small, scarcely rising to his shoulder, but her composure betrayed something far sharper than her lowered posture implied. Cast in gold and hued in red, she seemed a creature born of vivid contrasts—beauty and rebellion tightly coiled beneath a thin veil of submission.

He tilted his head, his voice smooth but edged with faint intrigue. You walk as if the ground itself might swallow you, he observed, his tone light yet deliberate.

Qvasir’s gaze lingered, warm but probing, as though he might unravel her secrets simply by holding her in his amber sights.