“Mircea must have heard us come in, but he continued what he was doing.He stood with his back to us, the candlelight on his bare skin causing his muscles to fall into sharp relief. He’d washed the river gunk out of his hair and now he threw it back, the water droplets shimmering in the light. The scene looked for all the world like a really good romance novel cover.”

“I’d never seen a guy in a kilt before but I had to admit I really liked it. My gaze traveled up his bare calves and over his back. His muscles flexed as he bent to arrange the twigs and limbs for the fire. The kilt covered his legs at one moment, then revealed them anew as he stood up…I suddenly remembered the saying that Scots don’t wear anything under their kilts and pushed back a crazy impulse to see for myself.”

“I stare at his chest. I can't seem to make my eyes move away. When I seen him without his shirt before, back at Hopetown, all I noticed was the scars. But now all I can see is how lean an strong he is. With wide shoulders an arms roped with muscle. He ain't got no hair on his chest, not like Pa an Lugh. My fingers itch to touch it. Find out if his skin feels as smooth as it looks.”

“When she had gone upstairs, he walked to a window and stood looking up at the sky. His head thrown back, he felt the pull of his throat muscles and he wondered whether the peculiar solemnity of looking at the sky comes, not from what one contemplates, but from that uplift of one's head.”

“Oh baby," he whispers. Steps back. Out of the doorway. His face ashen. He walks slowly back to the kitchen. Leans over the counter. Puts his head in his hands. His hair falls over his fingers.The bathroom door clicks shut.She stays there for a long time.He's pulling his hair out.”

“He sank to his knees, absolutely full of despair and sadness. For a long time, droplets of blood continued to fall into his lap.”