A witch so bold would not flinch, no matter how harsh her punishment might be, though his wish was for her to feel every strike.

— Arla Dahl

He guided her hands lower, over her own soft belly, her hips, the tops of her thighs. The oils they spread there left a sheen upon her flesh. A sheen that glistened as firelight and shadows caroused about the space. His grasped her wrists and he urged her hands to her back once again. “Clasp them,” he said and she did.

— Arla Dahl