"Nor should you, darling child," he said, his hand nevertheless greedily closing around hers. Since the surgery, his touch had grown warm -- just like any other man's might be. Even Erik had noticed that his skin did not cool hers any longer. Another thing he owed to Hannibal. His wife need not be wed to a corpse, nor need she be wed to a man who felt like one. Erik laced his thin fingers through hers and held tightly. He always held tightly, even when he was at his weakest.
There was peace in her nearness. He'd long ago forgotten the awkwardness of being in a state of undress within her presence. The scars around his wrists were visible whenever she'd visited him. There were old marks down his sides where a whip had missed striking the center of his back. Two old knife wounds on his shoulder and slashing across his stomach. But the worst that she could see now was the long, hot pink line down his chest. It was, Erik thought, the only scar he'd won that meant someone was trying to help him. It was, Erik thought, the only scar that was not ugly.
"Tell me how you've filled your day," he said, not content to stay quiet in her company. He needed to hear her voice, wanted it poured out over him like a blessing. He would not ask her to sing. But if she spoke, simply spoke, he would content himself with it. Hungrily, he drew the back of her hand to his lips and pressed.