Ravensblood Forest light of my life, fire of my loins [m]

“”

Alas, he had anticipated the bitter slash of her teeth, the enraged snarl of her betrayal, and so at her trembling admission, the shaman was taken aback, and it showed plainly in the cracked ice of his gaze. The man found he could scarcely meet her eyes, so great was his surprise, but he found himself drawn to her, driven quite mad with tenderness at the tremour he had never before heard in Jinx's voice.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, hoping with some sort of effusive grace that his plea would dispel the cursed sorrow he had wrought in her heart. Lecter came to her, yes; he arranged himself alongside her lithe form, seeking, if she would but let him, to preen gently the fine pelt of her cheek, icewater eyes seeking the truths of her own fire, those lockboxes she had carried for far too long.

At length his eyes flew shut; the shaman breathed deep the scent of her, the clean fragrance of a newly-fallen snow, or the first rose to bloom in the springtime air, and though perhaps it was impossible, he fancied he could still catch the faintest hint of salt-rime from Shearwater's never-forgotten shores. Surely this was a dream! surely in the next moment, her slender muzzle would lift to punish him with harsh attacks of her razored teeth! but he could not keep from seeking her out, from tracing the aquiline beauty of her muzzle with his lips, her eyelids, her eartips — if she allowed this, he knew in the very core of himself that if his heart were to cease its rhythm this very moment, he would die the most blessed of men.

“Jinx,” he cried in a whisper, into the ivory shell of one smooth ear, and it was all he could say.