"Is this the hand," Lorraine's voice dropped to a silken hiss, "that drew his blood?"
The edge of the fan hovered a hair's breadth from breaking him. Where the metal hovered, a cold fire bloomed and his pulse answered like a drum under his ribs. He felt it everywhere: first in the hollow at his throat, then as a quickness under his jaw, a heat that moved down into his belly and turned the world narrow.
He should have pulled back. He should have yanked his hand away. Instead, he held her gaze, caught in the snare of those eyes. Icy. Merciless. And yet burning with something that drew him closer, like a moth circling a dangerous flame.
There was hunger there, not just for answers, and the unsettling truth was… he wasn't sure if it was hers or his.
"I wanted to kill him," Damian said.
