“Drake Cordella?” Mira shouts, and the three of us turn as she charges across the room toward Drake. “As in the nightwing drift?” He gives my sister a charming yet cocky smile. “You’ve heard of me?” “You were instrumental in bringing the wards down in the Montserrat offensive last year.” Her eyes narrow. “I was.” His grin expands. She knees him straight in the groin. Oh gods. “Ooh.” Ridoc winces. “He’s going—” Drake hits his knees, and Cat gasps. “—down,” Ridoc finishes. “You must be Mira Sorrengail,” Drake manages to say, pain etched in every line of his face. “Guess you’ve heard of me, too.”
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