Her face was flushed. Her dark hair had come loose from its travel band and spread against the formation stone beneath her with the specific dishevelment of a woman who has stopped managing her presentation as a priority.
Her eyes were sharp—still sharp, still Chen Yun, the incision of her attention unchanged—but behind the sharpness was something that had been under the sharpness for eleven months and was rising.
"I told you I'd kill you," she said.
"You can try afterward," he said.
He kissed her.
His hand moved between her thighs.
