Glasya's deep, genuine laugh echoed off the walls' uneven stones. In his left hand was a blazing red lightsaber, its short, jagged blade humming a hair's breadth from her breast. It purred as he drew it gently over her clothes, searing a fine line in the cloth. Beneath the amusement in his eyes something shone dark and hard.
"It does, little shifter," he said. "Touch me again and we see if you can reshape a carved-out heart." He smiled. Pressed slowly, gingerly, into her mind, perusing those memories that lay shallowly inside. He liked what he saw: there was marked promise there. "I'd rather give you a job than a pyre. Which will you choose?"