Deeply.
Viscerally.
But beneath the desire was something else.
Something more dangerous.
Reverence.
Like I mattered.
Like touching me meant something.
Like I meant something.
The realization cracked through my chest with painful force.
Because all my life I’d felt like the unfinished piece in a room full of masterpieces.
Too soft.
Too emotional.
Too uncertain.
Too late blooming.
Too much in all the wrong ways.
The Cordoza women were powerful, elegant Witches with strong affinities and stronger personalities.
My sisters commanded rooms effortlessly.
My cousins excelled in spell craft, politics, and potion sciences.
And me?
I was the anxious thirty year old grad student who still didn’t know where her magic truly belonged.
The one whispered about at family gatherings.
The one people pitied when they thought she couldn’t hear.
Poor Amrin.
Still struggling.
Still searching.
Still unmated.
Still adrift.
Yet when Sten looked at me?
I didn’t feel lacking.
I felt seen.
