She bares her throat, and that dark thing inside him coils tightly, pleased. His lips touch down gently — at first. Soft, petal kisses down toward her shoulder. In between them, he mumbles, "To keep. To live."

To be quietly exempted from the eventual hit-list he'll imply to Geralt, at that. If it comes to that, she can stay. He'd kill the rest of them, but he'd like to keep her for himself — at least for a while, until he can either take that darkness in her for himself, or coax it into a proper flame.

His palms slide along her waist, down her hips, around the back of her thighs. Fingertips grip tightly in her glutes, hard enough to bruise, to keep her in place for when he sharply nips at her throat. The impression of his teeth sink into skin, not hard enough to break it, but sudden enough to be startling. He kisses it to soothe it, and adds, "To take with me."