“I want to mark you.” Her fingers slid over his back, leaving trails of ice behind them.
Hemlock shivered, and didn’t look up. He couldn’t have if he’d wanted to, and he didn’t want to see her expression.
He didn’t answer, either. He knew what was coming.
Her fingers, again. The murmured workings. The soft pricks, like a tattoist’s needle, although he knew if he could look, he’d see no needle.
“What…?” he finally asked, when his Keeper’s cool hand rested on his back, soothing.
“It’s in the Old Tongue.” She caressed the swollen area. “It marks you as Mine.”
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