Manon was sitting upright in bed, golden eyes darting between Rowan and Dorian and her. Fenrys slid in behind them, his attention going right to the witch. No doubt stunned by the beauty, the grace, the blah-blah-blah perfectness of her. Manon said, low and flat, “Who is this?” Dorian lifted a brow, following her gaze. “You’ve met him before. He’s Fenrys—sworn warrior of Queen Maeve.” It was the narrowing of Manon’s eyes that had some instinct pricking. The flare of the witch’s nostrils as she scented the male, his smell barely detectable in the cramped cabin— “No, he’s not,” Manon said. The
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