One thing, and one thing alone came to Renard’s mind. The thought did not creep but rather burst forth onto the stage of his mind, did a little dance, then swished Southward. His fingers flexed, unflexed. Deep breath. Just say it. Just say the words.

One grimacing tic escaped his control. Instead of cursing the flaw Renard blessed it. That little, terribly mortal part of him served as a reminder of who he was. Would Clark say such a base thing? Could Cary even think those words? No, and neither would Renard.

He struggled to his elbows, propping himself in as dignified a way as his throbbing head would allow. With a bracing breath he brought his eyes to meet hers, only her eyes, nothing else of her scantily clad form. He almost lost it right there, not by a careless glance at a pristine example of the feminine form in rich caramel color but in dark, mysterious eyes of eternal brown.

Renard did not falter, “I will do my utmoost to aid you feur nothing more than thee honore of thee servis itself.”