He opened for her, and then they were tangled
in each other again, teeth and tongues and
hands roaming, touching, tasting.
But Lysandra managed to extract herself
again, her breathing as jagged as his own.
“Tomorrow, Aedion,” she breathed.
“We have enough left in our arsenal for our
archers to use for another three days, maybe
four if they conserve their stores,” Lord
Darrow said, arms crossed as he read through
the tally.
Manon didn’t dislike the old man—part of
her even admired his iron-fisted control. But
these war councils each evening were
beginning to tire her.
Especially when they brought bleaker and
bleaker news.
Yesterday, there had been one more
standing in this chamber. Lord Murtaugh.