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Summary
“Amita—” He drawls her name, makes the final syllable a syrupy caress. “I know we’ve never been formally introduced, but you can’t tell me you don’t recognise me?” He leans forward into the light, pulling the scarf away from his face. Mouth drawn wide in a dagger-slash smirk, firelight playing over sharp cheekbones, a mad gleam in his eyes. Amita no longer feels warm.
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Pagan Min is officially dead, Amita is hunted for treason. He saves her life, and as far as he's concerned, he owns her now. It's going to be a very long winter.
