Year of the Lilies

Torrid Season

The Streamlet

Altsas

Mavli

I LAY SPRAWLED BENEATH HIM. Totally vulnerable to attack, he stands staring down at me like the angel of death. His lips are curled into something crooked and twisted.

The plead escapes my lips before I can help it. "Cirok. Please."

He surprises me, throws the dagger beside me. It's blade is still coated with blood — his blood. "Rise, Mavy. I have not come to hurt you."

My blood is ...