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... not letting go.

The moon was high.

No torches. No candles. Just pale light spilling over the courtyard like a second skin.

I knelt on the mat. Shirtless. Still bruised. Waiting.

She came without a word.

Seraphine Dawnhart—taller in the dark. Wrapped in a tight black cloak and tighter leather. Her hair wet from a cold rinse, her skin damp and gleaming. Muscles taut. Hips wide. Breasts heavy beneath a war-slick wrap.

She looked like a goddess sculpt ...

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