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recognized him.
Dorian had just completed another walking
circuit in his little training area when Manon
stalked by, silver hair flowing. He paused, no
more than a wary Crochan sentinel, and
watched her storm through snow and mud as
if she were a blade through the world.
Manon had nearly passed his training area
when she went rigid.
Slowly, she turned, nostrils flaring.
Those golden eyes swept over him, swift
and cutting.
Her brows twitched toward each other.
Dorian only gave her a lazy grin in return.
Then she prowled toward him. “I’m
surprised you’re not groping yourself.”
“Who says I haven’t already?”
Another assessing stare. “I would have
thought you’d pick a prettier form.”
He frowned down at himself. “I think she’s