Alaric did not speak immediately. He stood before the towering, magnificent commander of the Violet Thunder Pavilion, letting the heavy, fragrant silence of the warded tent stretch between them. The rich, intoxicating aroma of burning spirit-sandalwood curled through the warm air, a scent that had become her singular psychological anchor over the past grueling month.
He reached out, his large, warm hands resting gently upon her waist. The sheer, translucent violet mist-silk was practically weightless against her skin. Beneath his palms, he felt the rigid, battle-hardened muscles of her athletic core trembling with a mixture of raw nervous energy and deep, suppressed desire.
