#whhhew

  ‘  Lydia.  ’

  HE RUNS HIS HANDS OVER HER  ;  like satin, the warmth of blood. Wrist-deep in an immortal river. It is not grasping but an act of intelligence, of discovery, of cognitive disbelief. That there are things so soft and lovely. That these things do not shrink from his touch  —  that she rises into his hands, pushes against him, sighs with satisfaction. It is wrong, he is unfit to hold her. Wrong, or perhaps it would be  —–

  But she has teeth, too, and behind her eyes like the green of damp earth, of deep forest, there lurks the blue-black face of death. The look in her eyes that blinds him. A trigger, a pin. Not her death, no, but the deaths of other people. The same that file in a column behind his ever step, pace for pace, a lengthening line that only he perceives. His shadow, real as the sun. When she invites him into her bed, they cannot enter. They must wait outside the door  ;  and he does not deserve to be free of them but he is free, free of them, wound about her, coiled like a snake. Love exists in him like youth  :  new, needy, full of passion and violence gentled by devotion.

  He is devoted. He is the dog.

  Is this what you need? Living in her red hair, red hair that turns the moonlight pink? Blood from an artery. Faint as a blush. 

  The Witcher rests his head on her soft stomach, gripping her hips in his hands. Whatever woman is inside her tonight he loves. She spills her contents onto the linens like the scattered clutter of an upturned chest. Whatever woman will rise in the morning  :  he loves. He is helpless to do anything but this.

  He says her name again, his pitted voice rich with a penitent affection.