Chapter 6 · The Perfect Lie

"Hold still, or I'll sew your skin to the fabric," Sloane snapped, her voice sharp as the needle in her hand.

Kaelen didn't move. He sat on the edge of the workbench, his massive frame making the heavy oak table creak. He was stripped to the waist, the flickering candlelight catching the jagged lines of his chest—scars that shouldn't have existed on a vessel he'd crafted from a blank soul.

"Why do you care if the sleeve is torn?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space between them. "I can kill a man with a ripped cuff."

"You're not killing anyone tonight," Sloane muttered. She stepped closer, her thigh brushing against his knee. She reached up to pull the fabric of his tunic tight, her fingers grazing the warmth of his skin. "You're supposed to be a guard, not a street brawler. Guards look presentable. Now shut up and let me fix this."

Kaelen looked down at her. His eyes weren't the vacant, obedient voids they had been when he first woke. There was something there now—a hunger, a flicker of something ancient and predatory that made the hair on Sloane's arms stand up.