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shifter had taken her place.
Aedion stalked through the camp,
Lysandra-as-Aelin at his heels. “I know,” he
said over his shoulder, for once ignoring the
warriors who saluted him.
She kept following him anyway. “What
should we do?”
He didn’t stop until he reached his own
tent, the reek of that Valg messenger clinging
in his nose. That whip of blackness spearing
for Lysandra still burning behind his eyes. Her
cry of pain ringing in his ears.
His temper roiled, howling for an outlet.
She followed him into the tent. “What
should we do?” she asked again.
“How about we start with making sure
there aren’t any other messengers lurking in
the camp,” he snarled, pacing. The Fae royals
had already conveyed that order, and were
sending out their best scouts.