Dressed all in black, his shoulders were drawn up around his pointed ears. His chest rose and fell with the sawing of his breath. Tattoos writhed and shifted like smoke across every patch of visible skin, creeping up the back of his neck and swirling over the backs of his hands. It was Death. In such a feral state, he bore little resemblance to the male that had scooped me off the floor in the Hall of Mirrors. It wasn’t until he threw his head back, baring his teeth, that I allowed myself to believe that it was him. Beside me, Everlayne sucked in a sharp breath, pushing forward to the edge of
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THE MAN OF THE HOUR
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