It showed a woman with eyes of blue flame and hair of pure gold poised above him, dagger raised and angling to plunge into his heart. He wished. He sometimes wished that she hadn’t been stopped. The scar on his face—from the nails she’d gouged into it when she first struck him … It was that hateful wish he thought of when he looked in the mirror. The body on the bed and that cold room and that scream. The collar on a tan throat and a smile that did not belong to a beloved face. The heart he’d offered and had been left to drop on the wooden planks of the river docks. An assassin who had sailed
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