He was tender with me that night, between the absurdly luxurious sheets of the absurdly luxurious hotel his people had booked for us. His hands, rough with their guitar calluses, stroked my breasts, my belly, my back, pulling me into him as he made love to me. His breath tasted sweet with magic and whiskey, his lips tender on my neck, in my hair, on my nipples, as if he were savoring me in every detail, every taste. As if I were so precious in his arms that he was suddenly terrified of shattering me to nothing. When we lay in bed afterward, in the early hours of the morning, our bodies sweetly spent and our magics humming beautifully in each soft, slow, aftermath kiss. I touched his face with my fingertips. I traced the shape of his lips, his cheeks, buried my fingertips in his dark, sweat-damp curls. "You said you would be safe from them," he whispered. "From the Court…""I am," I insisted, but my voice felt like a pretense of itself. "Hester," he said, so very gently, "Let's n
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