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In a moment of indulgence, Soren allowed himself to lightly trace the contours of the stranger’s face.
The man’s gentle, delicate features gave him a look of dignity and serenity as he lay unconscious on the guest bed. His skin was soft as Soren caressed it, marred only by a single, long-faded scar across his cheek. And despite his veneer of fragility, Soren could smell magic in his blood, rich and potent and utterly alluring.
Were he an impulsive man, Soren would have taken the stranger’s wrist and sampled the delicacy that had all but stumbled into his lap. But many long centuries had taught Soren the value of patience. There was no need to be so hasty.
It wasn’t often, after all, that the Valley got visitors during winter. Even more rare did visitors carry such intriguing hints of the depths they concealed. There was a story to this man, and to his companion, that Soren was keen to unravel. And he had all the time in the world to learn everything there was to know about them.
As the man began to stir, Soren pulled his hand away. A smile settled on his face; he had a feeling that whoever this stranger was, Soren was going to like him very, very much.