Mira's heart pounded against her ribs.
Evren was close—so close that she could count the individual shades of gold and silver in his eyes, could see the faint lines at their corners that spoke of centuries lived and centuries survived. His hand was still on her cheek, warm and steady, and his scent—smoke and winter and something ancient—wrapped around her like a blanket.
He's going to kiss me, she thought.
And I'm going to let him.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned closer—close enough that his breath mingled with hers—and pressed his forehead against hers.
The contact was gentle. Almost reverent.
And then Mira felt it.
Warmth.
Not the heat of embarrassment or the flush of desire, but something deeper. Something that seemed to flow from him into her, filling the
