[ It sounds even better from Iorveth's lips than his own. He'd never planned on passing his name onto anyone else. Hells, half the time it hadn't even felt like his name. He'd been more a Szarr than an Ancunín; after all, he could hardly remember the faces of the people who gave him the Ancunín name, but Cazador's was clear as day. 'Family' had meant a tormentor and his slaves, not anyone who loved him. He wouldn't mind discovering a new type of family with Iorveth. A family of two, but still a family, he thinks.

Ugh. This is the sort of sentimental nonsense that used to make him retch. He blames Iorveth for turning him into a puddle of a man.

His fingers slide between Iorveth's, and he squeezes before tugging him along, down the paved street and back toward their inn. It's still dark, but the sky is beginning to turn faintly purple. (Of course. Everything is purple here.) ]

Sharing a bed with your betrothed before the wedding? Oh, the scandal. How will we ever ensure your purity remains intact?