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Bare Spirit: The Selected Poems of Susan Marshall

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Susan L. Marshall

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“He chucked her under the chin. The way he had at the Belian shrine. Everything about this moment carried echoes of before, painted in a new light. “I thought Queen Urduja might have told you what to write,” he admitted. “I assumed you told her about—about what my father—” “I didn’t,” she said quickly. Talasyn tried to step back. Tried to step away from Alaric and this jumble of emotions, this labyrinth. But she found herself frozen in place as relief softened his features, taking away the years. The corner of his mouth, mere inches from hers, lifted in what was almost a smile. “Write to me again, Tala.” There was a teasing lilt to his tone. “I’ll write back. I promise. We’ll endure your awkwardness together.” Her spark of annoyance was eclipsed by how close he was, close enough to kiss. And maybe she should kiss him, to erase some of that smugness …”

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Book:A Monsoon Rising
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“Talasyn was burning up. Had it really been just thirty minutes? It had felt much longer. Her throat was parched and every inch of her body was on fire. Heatstroke, she thought groggily. Like the relentless summers on the Great Steppe. Too much light, too much warmth. She took a step toward the waterline with some hazy thought of drowning herself in the Eversea. She would do anything for even a moment’s relief, but the treacherous sand shifted under her feet and she couldn’t correct, she was falling— And Alaric was catching her. Strong arms wrapped around her, hauling her up against a broad, hard frame. The relief was instantaneous everywhere his skin touched hers, her fevered brow to the hollow of his throat, his bare hands on her shoulder and the small of her back. It spread, this cooling, the roar of light receding. And Alaric was shaking, too. No, he was shivering. His teeth were chattering and he was ice-cold. Talasyn burrowed deeper against his chest, tightening her own grip on him, no thought left to her but to offer him some measure of comfort. Her left hand slipped underneath the hem of his shirt, palm flat on the heaving muscles of his abdomen. His tremors abated and his breathing evened out at the same time as hers.”

AlaricTalasyn
Book:A Monsoon Rising
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“Hot. She felt too hot, too consumed by thoughts of Alaric Ossinast, her nerve endings scraped raw by the ghosts of touch. She closed her eyes in an attempt to meditate, to calm and center herself, but the darkness only brought him into sharper relief. She could almost smell him, all sandalwood and juniper and smoke. She could almost hear his harsh, ragged pants in her ear. As though he were there with her.”

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Book:A Monsoon Rising
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