The figure in the doorway blocked it entirely, shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the frame, head ducked slightly to avoid the lintel. The torch he carried cast his face in sharp relief: brutal angles, deep-set eyes that caught the light like hammered iron, tusks longer than any she had seen. Scars mapped his features. One bisected his left brow, another curved along his jaw, a third disappeared into the collar of his simple gray tunic.
He did not speak.
He simply looked at her.
Verity's mouth opened. No sound emerged. She had read that he stood a full head taller than his largest warriors. The report, it turned out, had not exaggerated.
The Warchief of the Mountain Clan stood in the doorway, watching her. His face was stone-still, and his deep-set eyes did not move from her.
Then he spoke.
"You were told to wait."
Chapter 3
Verity's mind, which had served her reliably through nine years of archival work, two Senior Council interrogations, and one memorable incident involving a misfiled treaty and a very angry duke, chose this moment to supply her with an observation that was entirely unhelpful.
He's enormous.
The warchief did not merely occupy space. He commanded it. The doorway seemed to strain around him. The torch in his hand looked like a twig. His shadow swallowed half the room.
"I was told to wait," she agreed, because her mouth apparently still functioned even when her higher reasoning had fled. "The summons didn't come."
"The summons was delayed," he continued. "I came to inform you myself. You were not there."
"No," Verity said. "I found the stairs."
"You found the stairs."
"Well, they were not hidden."
Another pause. Verity became aware that she was still holding her journal open, quill poised above the page.
She closed the journal. Tucked the quill behind her ear. Straightened her spine, which did absolutely nothing to diminish the size differential between them but made her feel slightly less like a child caught somewhere she should not be.
"I apologize," she said. "I should have waited. But I have never been good at waiting, and I—" She stopped. Regrouped. "That is not a reasonable explanation. I apologize."
He stepped into the room. His shoulders were broad enough that he had to turn slightly sideways to enter the doorway, and his head nearly brushed the stone lintel above.
"You were granted access to your quarters. Not to wander the archives unsupervised on your first night."
"I didn't wander. I walked directly down the stairs and into the first room." She heard herself say it and immediately wished she hadn't. This was not the moment for precision. This was the moment for deference.
Unfortunately, she had never been good at deference either.
The warchief's eyes narrowed. "You are not afraid," he observed.
Verity cocked her head. "Should I be?"
"Most humans who find themselves alone in a dark room with me are."
"Dark rooms full of old documents are my natural habitat." She paused. "Also, you haven't threatened me. You've expressed disapproval, which is different. I am well acquainted with disapproval. It rarely escalates to actual violence in my experience."
She could hear the torch flame guttering in the silence.
Then the warchief laughed. Once, low, and gone before she could be sure of it.
"You are a strange creature."
