Comhroinn Fuaime

The Warlord decided I was his to own—just a healer, not a witch.​ My blood drove him crazy, turned him into something primal.​ He threw me on the royal suite bed, his eyes dark with hunger.​ I tried to tell myself I was safe because I was useful.​ Then he leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.​ He whispered his demand, low and deadly.​ “Take off your clothes.”