He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically.
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