Why were the worst men always the most handsome? In another situation, I might have appreciated their good looks. With my life at stake, square jaws and chiseled features meant nothing to me.
The largest of the four had shoulders that barely cleared the doorway. Slabs of dense muscle promised violence. His eyes swept the room—exits, windows, potential threats—before settling on the body. His face, a study in angular lines, tightened in annoyance. He shifted his gaze to me, and his impossibly blue eyes took my measure.
I met his gaze briefly, then lowered it to my lap. I wasn’t a threat. Not at all. Please, please, underestimate me.
“What happened here?” Each word was clipped, military-precise. The gravel in his voice matched his face and body. Hard. Unyielding. Dangerous.
“He showed up looking for his daughter.” I was a terrible liar; keeping close to the truth was my only hope.
“Is she here?” He scanned the room as if I might be hiding a child in the shadows.
“I have no idea where she is.” Truth. Now came the tricky part—the outright lie. I clasped my hands behind my back and took a shaky breath. I had to convince them. The authorities allowed our shelter because it kept girls who had nowhere else to go off the streets. If they caught me lying, every girl in the house might lose her home. “I told him she wasn’t here, and he lost his temper.”
The man’s sharp gaze returned to my face, trapping me like a butterfly pinned to a board.
A second member of the guard turned over the body. “Fuck. Grayson, you’d better take a look.”
The giant, Grayson, turned away from me, and I wiggled my fingers, releasing the tension that had traveled from my shoulders to my hands.
The second man shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “It’s Wolgen Smit.”
Now four sets of eyes pinned me to a board.
“What happened here?” Grayson demanded.
“I told you. He got angry.”
“That doesn’t explain a dead council member.”
“He threw death magic at me.” My words hung in the air like bubbles. Fragile bubbles. This wasn’t my fault (a lie). I didn’t have the power to kill a man like Smit (but I’d done it). I offered them a weak smile, hoping they’d collect the body and leave us be (not a chance in hell).
“If that’s true, why aren’t you dead?” Grayson pricked the bubbles, and harsh reality returned. His eyes narrowed, and heglared at me as if I were upsetting the natural order by drawing breath. Oh, and he didn’t like sharing air with me. He might be handsome, but he was a complete asshole.
“His magic bounced back at him.”
They all stared at me.
I stared back, trying to make myself smaller.
The silence stretched.
“Flynn.” Grayson jerked his chin at me. “Hit her.”
Flynn examined his nails and brushed a piece of lint off his uniform.
If Flynn’s magic rebounded, and I killed a guard, my life was over. Before I had a chance to truly worry, fire blasted from his fingers and flames engulfed me. I stood in the center of a furnace, but my skin didn’t blister or burn. I didn’t even feel the heat, just a vague warmth. Nothing more.
“Enough.” Grayson crossed his arms over his impossibly massive chest, and his scowl deepened.
I didn’t move, doing my best to project I’m-a-harmless-female vibes.
Flynn cocked his head, running his fingers through his red hair as he studied me with avid curiosity, like I was an entertaining puzzle. He was deliberately slow to stop the stream of fire, clearly enjoying the show.
I wasn’t a puzzle. I was a woman having a terrible day, one who’d failed to convince him with her harmless act. “Are you done?” I snapped.
A fresh wave of fire hit me. If I didn’t have a shield, I’d be nothing but a charred husk on the living room floor. I glared at him. “Was that necessary?”
Flynn’s grin widened as he blew on his fingertips. “Just being thorough.” His casual tone made it clear that attacking an innocent woman was more entertainment than duty.
