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over him. They smelled of horses and hay, and
might very well have been snatched from a
stable, but he didn’t care. It was warm and
better than nothing.
Manon surveyed the tight space, the second
bedroll and blanket. “Thirteen is an uneven
number,” she said by way of explanation.
“I’ve always had a tent to myself.”
“Sorry to ruin that for you.”
She cut him a drily amused glance before
seating herself on the bedroll and unlacing her
boots. But her fingers halted as her nostrils
flared.
Slowly, she looked over her shoulder at
him. “What did you do.”
Dorian held her stare. “You did what you
had to today,” he said simply. “I did as well.”
He didn’t bother trying to touch Damaris
where it lay nearby.
She sniffed him again. “You killed the