“The man standing in the gap was — wrong. Wrong for a warlock, wrong for a Pishach, wrong for any of the creatures Nidhi had catalogued in her decade of captivity. He was tall — absurdly, unreasonably tall — with shoulders that blocked the light and green eyes that caught the scattered sunbeams and refracted them into something that looked less like colour and more like intent. Dark curls fell across his forehead. His jaw was carved from granite. His body radiated heat — actual, physical warmth that Nidhi could feel from three metres away, a warmth that her frozen, malnourished, blood-starved body yearned toward with an instinct that overrode every survival protocol she possessed.”