It was a slip of the tongue.
Sesshoumaru's eyes widen. An unfamiliar tingling sweeps up the back of his neck, spreading over his face until he feels the tips of his ears heat, and he resists the impulse to leave.
"Your intended?"
Inside, he cringes. The timing is wrong—presumptuous even. But there's not much he can do other than suffer through the lapse in his reserve.
Naked.
The urge to cover himself is stronger than he'd like.
"Sesshoumaru?"
Her uncertainty, thick and viscous like tar, clogs his lungs when he breathes. But there's also something else—something sweeter.
Hope.
