Deepwood Weald [m] and you can hold me, like he held her

A kiss pressed to the juncture of her collarbone elicited the arch of her spine, a murmur given, incomprehensible, perhaps, spare for the appreciation within her croon. Warm eyes traced along him—smitten instantly, how could she not be?—and pushing away the harder truth that this was only a stolen moment in which their realms had met.

A witch indeed—she was thoroughly under his spell.

“Innis dhomh sgeulachd,” she requested.