Eyes that are pale—blue or gray, I can't tell from here—and cold in a way that should make me step back.
I don't step back.
He's wearing all black.
Expensive but understated.
The kind of clothes that are meant to let you fade into the background, except there's nothing about this man that fades.
He's tall—taller than Doran, maybe—with shoulders that strain the fabric of his jacket and hands that look like they could crush bone without effort.
A silver chain glints at his throat.
No other jewelry. No visible weapons.
That doesn't mean there aren't any.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
His voice is low.
Rough.
An accent that curls around the words like smoke—Irish, but with something harder underneath.
Something that speaks of back alleys and bloodstained knuckles and secrets buried in shallow graves.
"Shouldn't I?"
"No."
"And yet here I am." I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of how exposed I am. Silk blouse. Tailored trousers. Nojacket. No phone. Nothing between me and this stranger but cool night air and sheer, stupid stubbornness. "Who are you?"
Something flickers in those cold eyes.
Surprise, maybe.
Like he's not used to being questioned.
"No one you need to concern yourself with."
"That's not a name."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
He moves closer. Just one step, but it feels like a threat. Like a promise. My heart kicks against my ribs.
"Are you security?" I ask.
"Something like that."
"For the Mackenzies?"
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Yes, with the Brotherhood."
The Brotherhood.
I've heard whispers.
