Page 19 of Fierce Highland Magic

"What?"

"Never name it. Not casually, not in anger, not because someone asks nicely and appears to have set a charming little domestic scene inside a bottle."

The vendor's mouth sharpened.

"She has not named anything."

"She was considering it."

"Considering is not binding."

"It is an invitation."

Lyra folded her arms. "You told me not to say thank you."

"Yes."

"And now I'm not supposed to say what I want."

"Correct."

"That is an absurd rule."

"It is an exceptionally useful rule."

"Useful to whom?"

"To you."

Her eyes narrowed.

"To you," she repeated.

The question lay between us, clean and pointed.

I could have answered it. I could have told her that a market did not distinguish between an idle wish and a declared hunger; that it heard desire the way hounds heard a rabbit break cover; that nothing in this place was more expensive than a want named aloud by someone who still believed it belonged only to her.

Instead, I smiled.

"Me too, ideally. I'm trying to have a quiet night."

The vendor made a soft, disgusted sound.

Lyra did not look amused.

"Explain."

"Desire is billed," I said.

There. Plain enough to keep her alive.

The words settled over the stall.

The pale line at my throat blazed.

It started just beneath my ear, a narrow strip of silver light tracing down into the open collar of my coat. A hook beneath the skin.

My fingers curled once at my side.