Gwyn seated himself opposite her, large hands at his sides, his brow creased with concern. His size and bulk somehow made him seem more helpless than he would have otherwise. "I know what happened," he said. "When death comes in great and unexpected ways, the Wild Hunt knows it. We hear the stories told by spilled blood."
Diana didn't know what to say — that death was unfair? That Livvy hadn't deserved to die that way, or any way? That the broken hearts of the Blackthorns would never be the same? It all seemed trite, a hundred times said and understood already.
Instead, she said, "I think I would like it if you kissed me."
Gwyn didn't hesitate. He was beside her in a moment, graceful despite his bulk; he put his arms around her and she was surrounded by warmth and the smell of the forest and horses. She wrinkled her nose slightly and smiled, and he kissed her smiling mouth.
It was a gentle kiss, for all his size. The softness of his mouth contrasted with the scratch of his stubble and the hard musculature under her hands when she put them timidly on his shoulders and stroked.
It had been a long time, and she had never imagined something quite like this: moonlight and flowers and kissing in glades were for other people.
But apparently not.