LERRIN
Later, Suhle slept in his arms—curled almost into a ball, her back to him, but her arms resting on his where he held her at the waist, their finger entwined. He wrapped himself around her smaller frame, his knees under her thighs, his chest at her back, his nose in her hair. He needed to sleep, but he couldn't.
She seemed so small, suddenly, so breakable. And yet, he knew better than most the strength that lay within her. But something within him fought all of this—fought the need for it. And a niggling, frightening voice kept whispering, what else had he missed? What else was real that he had not seen?
Whenever he thought about the cat his anger was overwhelming. But when he'd shown the memory to Suhle, she'd found hope in it.
