“Stop it!” My voice is high-pitched, panicked.
Lucius moves closer, his eyes intent. “What’s wrong?”
“Then stop screaming your thoughts at me,”Rorrik croons, amusement heavy in his voice.
I’mdoing this?
Panic claws at me, and my throat constricts until I can barely breathe. Rorrik’s eyes turn feral and I want to climb out of my own skin. He’s a predator. My terror excites him.
“Leave,” Rorrik says, and I begin to sidle away, my back pressed against the wall.
“Not. You.”
I freeze. Lucius hesitates, his gaze flicking between us.
Rorrik leans toward Lucius. It’s the slightest change of position, but threat oozes from his body. “Did I stutter?”
“No.” Lucius firms his mouth. “Rorrik—”
Rorrik sighs, giving Lucius a look that’s almost … exasperated. “I won’t hurt her.”
“Go,” I say. The last thing I want is for Lucius to be hurt or worse for defending me. But I’ll remember this.
I’ll remember that he tried to stay.
Lucius reluctantly walks away, leaving me facing Rorrik in the corridor. Fresh fear washes over me, and Rorrik’s nostrils flare.
“There’s something very interesting about this little interaction,” he says. An icy presence slices into my mind, clutching it tight.
This is what makes him so dangerous.
I let out a pained sound, unprepared for the invasion. The pressure loosens slightly, and Rorrik stares into my eyes. Into my mind. He leans close, studying my sigil. “It has grown.”
I’m not sure how he knows that. The change is so slight, even Tiernon hasn’t noticed.
“And yet this is not a sigilmarked power.”
I stare at him. “Are you sure?” Some of my fear has turned into shock, and it seems to have blunted the edge of his bloodlust. Rorrik’s eyes are icy once more.
“Yes,” he says. “And yet you broke through my shields.”
I prepare to reach for my dagger, but it doesn’t seem as if my disembowelment is imminent. Instead, he looks almost … thoughtful.
Which means he probably won’t kill me if I question him some more. “Your shields?”
A sharp nod. “My mental shields are always up. I don’t reinforce them unless I’m near those who are at least half-crowned gold or full silver-crowned. Because I don’t need to. And yet you sliced through my basic shields like they were butter. Something you shouldn’t have been able to do as a sigilmarked with an embarrassingly small sigil.”
He shifts his cool gaze to my face, waiting expectantly.
Understanding hits me. Rorrik doesn’t care what length my sigil is. He wants my reaction to his taunt. Why? I have no idea. Boredom maybe. Folding my arms, I raise one eyebrow, leaning against the wall behind me.
The barest hint of amusement flickers through his eyes. “I want to know how you did it.”
“I don’t know. You heard me. It just … happened.”
Rorrik studies me like he’s my judge, jury, and potential executioner, and ice slides up my spine.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur. “You’re not … reading my mind?”
