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“Talasyn suddenly wanted nothing more than to assure Alaric of her presence. She sank fully against his form, holding him down with her weight, burying her face in the side of his neck in a chaste imitation of what he had done to her once, in another bed. “I’m here,” she vowed into his smooth, overheated skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A sound between a groan and a hitch of breath caught in his throat. The hand on the small of her back rubbed compulsively, tracing the notches of her spine, and his arm tightened around her. His other hand tangled in her hair. “I couldn’t kill that rebel.” It was a choked, bewildered rumble in her ear. “One word from you and I let my guard down. I couldn’t kill you, either, all those times before … What am I, if I’m not a weapon? What have you done to me?” — Thea Guanzon