Eyes closed in an attempt to stave off a heart-attack (or maybe just wimpy tears), Gideon therefore wasn't expecting the feather-light kiss that Harrow placed to her stomach. She twitched up into the gentleness, gasping, and--fuck it--her eyes flew open to watch as Harrow followed with her tongue, licking experimentally at Gideon's abs, and then the crease of her inner thigh; easing Gideon's boxers down so fucking slowly; examining each and every new inch of skin she laid bare, then testing it like Gideon's body was a puzzle to solve; unraveling Gideon as thoroughly as she'd unraveled the Lyctor theorems; laying waste to her as surely as she had their cruel and unloving God--but, as ever, as always, with the intention of making her whole again afterward.

The weight of Harrow's full attention was a heavy thing indeed, and Gideon had been a fool to think she could withstand it: she never expected it to feel quite so much like love.