“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.”
Book:A Monsoon Rising