"Something like that."
At the answer like that…
Priscilla's fist rose before she fully thought it through—a motion half-born of anger, half of the absurd little rebellion that kept ringing in her ribs. For an instant she surprised herself: Why not? What was stopping her? Pride? Habit? The careful training of a thousand ceremonies? None of it mattered in the breath between thought and action.
She struck his shoulder with the flat of her hand. Light, more a slap than a blow—there wasn't the weight for anything more. She'd never been strong in muscle; magic had always been the easier language. The impact was small, ridiculous almost, but it felt like a punctuation mark. An answer to everything he'd said and everything he'd implied.
Lucavion blinked. He turned toward her, brows lifting in that lazy, infuriating way of his. "What was that for?" he asked, genuinely curious, not even pretending to be offended.
