He was six foot five, with dark blond hair, and eyes as green as the sea glass Rubi’s parents used to make jewellery from. Deep eyes that crinkled at the sides when he laughed—a phenomenon regular enough to be addictive, and rare enough that I knew he was as good as Decoy at concealing his moods. Didn’t blame him. After the decade Locke Halliwell had survived, I didn’t blame him for anything. But he wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought he was. Or maybe he was learning to let go. Recovering. Either way, despite his easy grin, I knew he was annoyed. Annoyed with me.
