W H I T E T H O R N.

Rowan, sharpening his knives: Death will not get you out of this relationship.

HIS GAZE STUDIES HER from across the table with the specific, unending patience of a male who has all night and every intention of using it. " getting there. " his repetition is low, deliberate, —- a blade turned over in the hand just to catch the light. " careful, " he says, and there is nothing cautionary about it ... only the low, even register of a male who has learned, in great and thorough detail, exactly where every nerve of her ends. —- he leans back in his chair; their silence, breathing easily between them where it once drew blood. " —- that almost sounded like encouragement. " the ghost of a smile crosses his mouth as he reaches across the table without looking away, reclaiming his drink and taking a slow sip. the candlelight does indecent things to the lines of his face. he knows it. " i'd hate for you to raise my expectations ... "

My  muse  drags  their  fingers  slowly  down  your  muse’s  arm,  pretending  it  was  unintentional.

❛   is rifthold everything you dreamed it would be ?   ❜      it takes all internal might to keep her lips from cracking into a laugh - like smile at the question.      she had always stewed in wonder at what other continents thought of the darkened lands , and now more than ever with threat growing with each passing second.      (   not that aelin had perceived of doranelle stood any higher.   )      ❛   at least , given the lack of brooding fae males around every corner that is.   ❜

THE CITY PRESSES IN ON HIS SENSES LIKE A BRUISE. her wafted amusement, carrying to settle upon him like the grimace he'd worn. from where he leans against the cracked foundations of her warehouse apartment, arms crossed before his broad chest, he is set for surveying. upon entering, he'd noted her lavish furniture —- curated, lived-in, and so at contrast with the faint draft slipping through the window, carrying the scents of smoke and river rot from the streets. perhaps the muted senses truly spared him. " and more, " he said dryly. but with the ghost of a smirk ( and something buried ), he added: " —- one's enough. "

the orange hue of the sun cresting over the staghorns peaks illuminated the grand dining room , evening breezes of the settling spring floating through the enlarged windows lining the walls behind where the king and queen of terrasen sat.      ❛   i’d say it’s been close to two years now   . . .   ❜      aelin’s voice blooms from the warm hum of the otherwise quiet meal shared between herself and her mate.      eyes holding that of a mischievous gaze lock onto that of his.      ❛   you know , since you called me a coward and that i would be   . . .   how’d you put it , better off dead ?  ❜

THEY DINE TOGETHER IN PEACE, IN LOVE, — and in stark difference to the throes of their past. he grins at her mention, and leans forward as if in its echo, canines gleaming. " you cursed me to hell with that filthy tongue of yours. " there'd been a challenge in his rising brow then, dangling between them like the breath he'd drawn straight from her throat not an hour before and two feet from where she sat. he, fit enough for second-servings, indulges without breaking her stare. ' have i not made up for mine? ' he asks, filled with want for trying again, and again.