Lysander
Six thousand years of existence, and I'd never once concerned myself with the mechanics of romance. In Summer Court, connections were forged through political alliance or centuries of gradual attraction—measured courtships where emotions were carefully contained within predetermined boundaries. The idea of spontaneous romantic gesture was as foreign to me as mortality itself.
Yet here I stood in the packhouse library at three in the morning, golden light pulsing erratically around my hands as I stared at volumes on mortal customs and werewolf traditions, searching for something I couldn't even properly define. Something that would convey to Savannah what she meant to me—not just as the crucial center of our binding, but as the woman who had somehow bypassed six millennia of perf
