He was beautiful, tall, tanned, with stunning blue eyes. His fingers were nimble as he worked the string of his bow. She shuddered as she wondered what the calloused pads would feel like on her pale skin. The timbre of his voice made her ache, and his accent was intoxicating.
A beautiful temptation, held just out of reach by the Maker.
She rolled over and sighed, she would respect herself and him. She would not spend another night abusing herself while she thought about the musculature of his strong shoulders or the dusky rose color of his lips. Her dreams would not be filled with his kisses and caresses.
Tonight she would be strong.
He was so sweet and chivalrous with her, what would he do if he knew what terrible thoughts plagued her at night when she was alone. What if he knew that her long hours spent in the Chantry were not out of piety but to watch him, to be close to him?
Could he ever forgive her?
Each day she dragged the poor man all over Kirkwall just to listen to his voice, just to watch his body in motion. She could almost feel him under her fingertips when she watched him. More than once she had been glad for Anders's healing after a fight.
He had been sent to test her.
She craved him it was true, to touch him, to taste him. His perfect skin called to her, but she would not touch, she would keep her thoughts and her fingers to herself. She had become his best friend and it was both a blessing and a curse. Being close to him made her feel alive and it was the most horrible sort of torture.
His laughter haunted her.
In the daylight she played coy, shy and retiring. But the darkness held her truth; she had felt his fingers on her flesh a hundred times. The quiet of her room was a silent witness to the peaks to which his voice could push her. In her mind, she could have the handsome prince anyway she wanted, and often had.
All she wanted was a little death.