Clinging to denial, remember?She shoved the feeling away and came up behind him. “Is that what I think it is?”
He glanced over his shoulder. The moment their eyes met, whatever connection had awakened between them last night sparked back to life. There was an awareness of her in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
He arched a dark brow. “Since you went ahead and familiarized yourself with the contents of my desk, you should already know what it is.”
Distracted as she was, it took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, she stiffened. He continued watching her with a knowing look—aheatedknowing look.
He knew she’d gone through his desk, and … he didn’t seem pressed about it.
She coughed. “Angel blood, then?”
He went right back to painting the line with controlled brushstrokes. She stared at his back, noting the strength apparent in the controlled movements of his shoulders.
“Correct,” he said.
She waited with bated breath for him to chew her out, to threaten to throw her back into the dungeon, to warn her to never touch his shit. Instead, he just kept on painting. Several minutes of tense silence passed before she started to believe he was really going to let it go.
“Where did you get angel blood?” she dared to ask.
“From the angel chained up in my dungeon,” he replied, still focused on his lines.
Her eyes bugged. “There’s anangel—Who? How?”
“He was given to me as a gift. A peace offering of sorts.”
She scrubbed her face, trying to digest that information.That is so fucked up. This whole situation is fucked up, and I think I’m losing my mind.
She probably should’ve started planning an angel rescue mission—because weren’t they supposed to be the good guys?—but instead she was marveling at how Murmur seemed to be in a sharing mood. She wasn’t wasting an opportunity like that.
She studied the back of his head some more. The memory of the night before resurfaced again, and her stomach flipped over.
She ground her teeth. She had to stop these stupid thoughts. He was her captor, and she obviously needed therapy in a bad way.
“Pass me the second bowl of blood from the table?” he asked. She did so, careful not to spill a drop, and he took it from her without looking away from his work.
She stared at the red fluid, noticing it showed no signs of clotting. “Did you use the same potion on the bowl that you used on the vial?”
“Yes. I use it every time I use a blood sacrifice. The recipe is in one of the books I gave to you. If you’re going to be practicing Sheolic magic, you should learn it.”
“I’ll take a look.”
He balanced the fresh bowl in one hand and continued painting with the other, still not glancing up. Was he that unaffected by what had happened last night? Or was he just skilled at hiding his thoughts?
It didn’t matter. She forced her mind to focus on what really mattered: gathering information. She took a breath and asked, “Are you really a seer?”
“Yes.”
“Do your visions always come true? Every time?”
“Yes.” His tone was casual, but the subtle tightening of his shoulders said more than his words did. “From what I’ve seen, anyway.”
“Have you ever changed a vision before? Prevented it from happening?”
“No.”
There was silence as that sank in. Murmur kept working and Suyin stared at him.
“So what are you going to do?” She shouldn’t care. He was right—his death would be the ultimate convenience for her, the easiest way to escape.
