Her body pressed against his bare chest. His coat was open. His skin was warm. The pheromones were there—not as strong as in the room, but present. A trace. A hint. Enough to make her pulse quicken. Enough to make her breath catch. Enough to make her nipples stiffen against the training tunic.
He hugged her.
His arms went around her. His hands found her back. He held her the way he had held her in the cave—firm, steady, unhurried. His chin rested on the top of her head. His black eyes looked at the dark hallway.
She was crying.
Her face was pressed against his chest. Her tears fell on his skin. They ran down his pectorals. They pooled in the hollow of his collarbone. Her hands were on his back—gripping, her fingers digging into the muscle, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.
"The boy—" she sobbed. "They took him— I could not— I tried— I chased— they—"
