My heart is on fire, Griffin. I don't know when it'll stop.

You're the air I breathe," he says without a trace of humour in his voice.

I wasn’t made for Griffin, and he wasn’t made for me. We were made for each other.

How do you know?” I look at him like he’s one Centaur short of a herd. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.

We were friends before.” Sort of. We never tried to kill each other.

I turn back to Griffin. His expression is stony and unreadable, although if I had to take a wild guess, I’d say it was tending toward ominous.

The door opens, and I turn my head, my heart thudding at the sight of Griffin. Tall, broad, muscular but sleek, he stalks into the room like a predator, his gait balanced and sure, his glittering, gray eyes focused entirely on me. Inky hair, a hawkish nose, that stubborn jaw, and thick, black stubble make him look hard and intimidating. With his sword strapped on and his dark brows lowered, he’s a warlord on the prowl. I shiver. I couldn’t want him more.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Griffin asked me to take a chance. On him. On trust. On love. I did, and look where it got me. That my misery is my own damn fault doesn’t escape me. It just makes it worse.