"Would you believe… natural talent?"
Her eyes narrowed further. The arrow in her bow flared dangerously bright again.
Shit.
Like, what the hell does she want from me? A confession? A name? I don't even know who the hell she is, and I sure as hell don't know why I'm still awake when the rest of New York is taking an involuntary nap on the asphalt.
My tongue felt heavy, my heartbeat rattling against my ribs. Her gaze wasn't just looking at me—it was dissecting me, peeling me apart layer by layer as if searching for something buried under my skin.
"All men are the same."
Her words sliced through me sharper than the bow she was holding. The way she said it—final, absolute—like she'd already written me off.
My jaw tightened. Lady, I don't even know your name, and you've already shoved me into the same dumpster fire as every other guy?
