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offer.
To let him decide if he wished for contact.
If he could endure it.
Just as Rowan would let her decide if she
wished to touch him.
A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he
folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling
through him. Rowan couldn’t see her face,
perhaps didn’t need to, as her hands gripped
Fenrys’s jacket, so tightly they were white-
knuckled.
A good sign—a small miracle, that either
of them wished, could be touched. Rowan
reminded himself of it, even while some
intrinsic, male part of him tensed at the
contact. A territorial Fae bastard, she’d once
called him. He’d do his best not to live up to
that title.
“Thank you,” Aelin said, her voice small in
a way that made Rowan’s chest crack further.