"Calm yourself, Yeara. He must have gotten a new marking recently," she whispered to herself, though even her own words felt hollow, impossible to believe.
What was wrong with her?
Or was it her?
Zalthor, noticing her hands frozen in place, spoke.
"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice steady. Yeara's hand trembled slightly as she gave a slow, hesitant nod.
She did like it… she really did. But confusion clouded her thoughts. Perhaps back at the motel, she had simply misread it—woken up in an unfamiliar place, disoriented, and seeing things wrong.
Her hands loosened within his hair, and the red strands fell gently back to his shoulders.
"I am finished. I have come to realize that, were I to arrange it neatly, you would most certainly undo it by morning."
"And how are you so certain of that, my dearest Koalla?" he inquired.
Yeara's eyes moved to glare at him through the mirror, her gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips, which were so…
