He was the key. She had simply returned that small part of himself he’d left with her mother years earlier. He said nothing, content to let her explore him as the atavistic power of her curse flowed from her fingers to surge through his bones. Her shoulders shook with a visible shiver, transmitting down to her hand until it too quivered as she explored his torso. She gulped audibly, her eyes growing wider with each passing moment.

Cededa stood as motionless as any of the statues gracing Tineroth, letting her grow used to the notion of touching another. Had he not lived so long in near perfect isolation, the expressions of terror and wonderment that flashed across her features might have puzzled him. Even then, he still had no concept of what this simple moment must be like for a woman who’d never known the pleasure of touching another human being without the armor of her gloves or the fear of killing.

He shivered lightly under her caress, and muscle flexed beneath her palm. Cededa watched her, enthralled by her ever changing expressions—curiosity, fascination, puzzlement—as she continued her study of his body. He stifled a sharp gasp when her palm brushed his nipple. Unlike the cold lightning that razored through his veins from her curse, this touch started a slow burn that radiated out from his chest until it suffused him from head to toe. Desire, an emotion he thought long dead, awakened and bade his body remember.

Despite his best efforts to remain still and silent, he must have made some small sound because Imogen hesitated and glanced at him. He countered her questioning look with a raised eyebrow and a silent bid to continue. She offered a small smile before resuming her exploration. This time both hands journeyed over his torso, mapping the strong column of his throat, the lean line of his waist, the solid musculature of his arms. He was a landscape of toughened terrain, complete with battle scars and fissures that bisected his midriff and ribs. Old wounds that had healed but left their mark and told a story of strife and violence.

Cededa silently willed her to glide her hand across his nipple once more so he might savor for a second time the glowing heat that set his heart to racing. Instead, she did something better, something that had him curling his hands into fists so that he wouldn't crush her to him. She leaned closer, close enough to press her ear against his chest and listen. The soft whisper of warm breath flowed over his sensitized skin, caught the rhythm of his heartbeat and matched pace with it.

Willingly trapped within her embrace, Cededa tilted his head back and closed his eyes to the anemic sun. He was swallowed by a living darkness, a power that strove to bring him low yet did the opposite, awakening him to emotions and sensations long asleep. Death sought a foothold within him, battering the fortress of immortality built by the Living Waters. He clenched his jaw and fought to remain still for Imogen, whose earlier euphoric expressions reflected his own emotions.