And so, I lay beneath him, my heart rapidly beating. His body was a fevered inferno with the skin of his chest hot against mine. The scars on his back, the map of his exile, pressed into my skin through the thin fabric of my nightgown.
I tried to be still, to keep the deceptions to a minimum. But his hands were greedy, his touch impatient as he explored the lines of my body. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, fighting the instinct to pull away and break this expensive lie.
He thought I was Elowen. He thought I was the pureblood who had haunted his dreams for months. The woman who had become a memory that drove him to the brink of madness.
He needed to be reminded. He needed to be shown that the woman he yearned for was still alive, still within reach.
"Elowen..." he breathed and his lips found the pulse point at my throat, and I couldn't hold back the whimper that escaped my lips.
