"You're so tense, Theron," she whispered, her voice a silken snare that tightened with every word. She was close enough now that he could feel the cool silk of her robe fluttering against his trousers, a ghost-touch that set his nerves on fire. "You've spent far too long acting the part of the dutiful guard. You've let Dravik turn you into a piece of architecture. Don't you want to remember what it feels like to be just… you? To take what you want without asking for permission from him... or anyone?"
She reached up, her fingers tangling in the thick hair at the base of his neck, pulling his head down toward hers. Theron's rational mind screamed at him to pull away, to reassert the boundaries he had so carefully constructed. He thought of Sierra, of her sharp, insightful wit, the way she looked in the morning light, and the quiet dignity with which she faced a world that didn't understand her.
