She gasped, blinking away the sand crusted at the corners of her eyes, brushing away the strands of sea grass twined round her ankles. No ominous Armageddon. Just a lonely beach, high fog-shrouded cliffs, and a man lying stretched out beside her, one hand gripping a waterlogged sack. His face was turned from her. All she could see was a long slice of cheekbone, the defined edge of his jawline, an arched brow drawn low. Salt had dried across his back, the stretched and puckered skin a sickening reminder of the horrors he’d already suffered at Sir Dromon’s hands. She tried imagining what it had felt like to stand within the Deepings hall amid a circle of impassive faces as flames tore at her flesh and claws shredded her mind. She shrank from the thought as her gut clenched and vomit rose in her throat. She brushed sand from his shoulders, the muscles hard, the flesh warm. Imagined laying her lips to taste his salt-tightened skin, exploring the contours of his hard muscular body with slow sweet deliberation.
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