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The Mare
The Mare
Year of the Lilies
Torrid Season
The Streamlet
Altsas
Mavli
I LAY SPRAWLED BENEATH HIM. Totally vulnerable to attack, he stands staring down at me like the angel of death. His lips are curled into something crooked and twisted.
The plead escapes my lips before I can help it. "Cirok. Please."
He surprises me, throws the dagger beside me. It's blade is still coated with blood — his blood. "Rise, Mavy. I have not come to hurt you."
My blood is pounding in my ears, my heart is galloping like wild stallions. But I rise shakily like a young calf, his eyes don't leave mine, they gleam like a dark jewe
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