The Gilded Wolves

he wondered whether he was beginning to lose his mind. Impossibly, he thought he could smell Laila. Sugar in the air. A faint aroma of rosewater. She was haunting him.

This was what a kiss that meant nothing supposedly felt like. As if he could not touch her enough, taste her enough, as if this movement alone would leave his body riddled as an addict’s.

Séverin’s hands gripped her waist, as if she were an anchor. As if he were drowning. And maybe he was.