Late in the day for this post, but I’ve been tired all day and can’t seem to shake it. Nothing I wrote today seemed to fit for this, so I found you this little tidbit. Enjoy.
“Iain.” Her voice was as soft and musical as he remembered, perhaps even more so with the presence of so many American voices in the house. The sound of his name, the tiny plea behind it when she said it, flung his mind immediately back to the last time she’d said it. There’d been tears in her eyes and she’d been asking him to understand why she needed to travel alone—he hadn’t understood it then, and didn’t grasp it any better now—and he’d been assuring her, despite the weight of it, that he wasn’t upset at her. But before that, before that there hadn’t been that melancholy note to her voice, not when she’d been arching under his hands and making the soft little sounds he remembered even now, and the plea had been for a different kind of mercy than this. Just at the moment, he wasn’t sure which he felt more inclined to give.