“Her body poised with the tension of a wild animal, ready to pounce - or to flee. So beautiful, he thought. As he voiced the words, she faded away, and his world returned to blackness.”

“Hawk?"He gazed up at her, still crouched on the floor, ready to pounce if she so much as moved an inch.”

“Micah knew the power of a look. When two people touched from across a distance, that touch could be frightening, wary, or a stroke of gentleness. He stroked her gently. He never let his eyes dip below her chin; rather, he let himself take in every nuance of expression, every shift of each facial motion, the flicker of her lashes, the shadows in her eyes, the tension in her small body. She was like a bird ready to fly. Poised at the edge of her seat, her body stiff and prepared to run.”

“Yet he was still shaken by fading echoes of his fear that she might flee. Losing her would be very . . . personal.”

“He loved to draw. Animals pouncing mostly. And trees. Always lone trees in black landscapes.”

“...He had no breath, no being, but in hers, she was his voice; he did not speak to her. But trembled on her words; She was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw hers, Which colored all his objects-he had crease to live within himself; She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts...”