No flutter.
No shift.
Most people always had a tell. A twitch at the corner. A swallow to compensate for dry eyes.
Satoshi had neither.
Either he's innocent and his body knows it. Or he's the best liar in the room and I won't catch him here.
His posture alone could’ve cut marble. Back “welded straight,” shoulders squared like he’d been born on a battlefield. His black hair was neat, buzzed on the sides, longer on top.
Scarred knuckles.
Scarred neck.
Scarred cheeks.
When I looked at him, he scratched at his back, appearing absolutely miserable.
We have to get him a specialist to deal with that water allergy. It must be horrifying.
I continued to look at him, and still he didn’t blink.
Not even once.
My senses calmed.
Because Satoshi’s tell was the opposite of Kaoru’s—too much blinking meant he was lying.
Right now?
Nothing.
Total stillness.
Total focus.
He scratched his cheek once, a quick, suppressed gesture—like he refused to indulge whatever itch tormented him. The faintest irritation flickered across his features, but it wasn’t at me.
A glass of milk sat in front of him.
The Fangs are loyal so far, but I’m going to keep on watching them.
I looked to the other side of the table.
My nerves frazzled.
The Claws.
I’d seen them in Kenji’s war room, but hadn’t gotten an official introduction just yet.
Right now, every single one of them was looking at me.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Deciding if I belonged here.
