Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

At some point, the viking had ceased his movement to watch the approach of the woman dressed in white. The closer she ventured, the more defined she became, steam swirling away from her as she disturbed the springs just as he had. Livered eyes took note of what stood out to him: pale, small, lithe, soft, scarred. It was the last item upon the list that drew his attention, a moth drawn into a flame that it could not resist.

Only when there were mere feet between them now did the kona notice him and stop, looking like a doe caught in its grazing by a predator. For all he knew, the comparison might be on-the-nose, his ears pricking and swiveling to catch her gentle greeting, eyes taking in the way she turned her face away so that she might hide the scars that drew his interest so.

Why do you hide the proof of your survival? He asked bluntly. Stjornuati had never been known for his tactfulness.