Stone Circle no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

anoré does not greet him. she is a live wire, muscles tight and snapping. when she finally speaks, it is with a voice roughened by barely contained restraint.
what do you need of me?
"—to stop thinking." she growls, turning to face him fully. her jaw is tight with the effort to not bare teeth.
"i need something that hits back. you, or one of your men."  nostrils flare with the wind, catching the scent of sweat and smoke and him. all ash and earth and death. it only pours kerosene on the blaze within her, "i prefer you."
there is no flirtation in her voice. only fire and ice. a berserker's need attempting to mask a woman's want.
"all that muscle, and still no mark on me? fix that."