There’s an echo of disbelief in him, like he has suspicions that I’m not telling the whole truth.
I look at the dark warrior. “What does Connie do?”
His dark eyes flash.
But then his face shutters, and he just stares at me with a twisted look.
He tucks his chin to his shoulder and looks over at her, curled up with her back to the flames.
He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know.
Bet the guy hasn’t even spoken to her.
Bitterness spreads through me.
It’s not that I give two shits about Connie. It’s these alien fucks—making all these decisions for us.
Likehim.
The cold one I turn my narrowed gaze to.
The one who considers me with that frost in his eyes, not quite green, not quite white, but somewhere in-between.
That bitterness softens in me.
And I hate him even more because of it.
The dark warrior stands.
Towering over the campfire, he turns his cheek to us—and a heavy sigh deflates his solid chest. He’s the sort of muscle that’s too jacked, too bulky, too wide, like he’s on steroids for a bodybuilding competition.
It’s only now, looking up at him, that I realise how fucking big he is.
My insides run cold.
I got too chatty.
I got way too mouthy.
But the dark warrior turns a frown over to the humans, then his bootsteps follow.
He makes his way to Connie.
Maybe he took my words to heart.
My mouth tugs at the thought.
Poor Connie.
She’s a few bootsteps away from being woken up by a massive, jacked fae warrior asking her what she did for work.
I turn a faint amused smile on Samick.
He arches his brow at me in response—and I think he can sense it… or hear it.
The humour stirring in me.
He doesn’t question it.
