At twenty-two, Kova discovered that power without purpose was its own kind of prison, but it was the dreams that truly tortured him—vivid, visceral visions that left him hard and aching every dawn, his body burning for someone who existed only in sleep.
The dreams always began the same way. Heat against his back, tropical warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with presence. Feminine hands sliding up his chest, fingernails dragging across skin that had never wanted anyone's touch until these phantom caresses began. He could smell her—plumeria and volcanic stone, sun-warmed earth and that green scent of things growing wild. Her breath against his throat made him shudder, and when her tongue traced the shell of his ear, he always woke gasping, his c**k straining
