“Cold, chère?”

Rogue is shivering on the front porch steps as she drinks in the grounds’ winter wonderland.

She nods and the Cajun stubs out his cigarette. He sits down behind her and wraps her in himself, working his trench coat to cover them both. The heat of his body, the smell of cinnamon and cigarettes, his intoxicating nearness wash over her. His warm breath and stubble tickle the back of her neck. She shivers again, for a different reason.


“Chère…” He breathes out the name, like a prayer.

She closes her eyes.

“We should do this more often.”