Silas searched her face. “Were you feeling ill?” “No, no, nothing like that.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Were you uncomfortable seeing me?” Ivy brushed a stray curl off her forehead. How the fuck was she supposed to explain herself? “No,” she said, voice thin. The red in Silas’ eyes dimmed, fading almost completely into his dark irises. “Don’t lie, witchling,” he warned. “I’m not lying,” Ivy snapped, pointing at him with the corner of the paper. “And I don’t appreciate you constantly assuming—” “I’m not assuming,” he cut her off. “I can smell it on you.” Ivy’s eyes flashed. “Then
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