The Guardian stared at me like I’d sprouted bat wings. “What?” “Nothing.” “Something,” I hissed. “Stop looking at me like that. You told me not to let you take the knife. This is me doing that.” “Maybe we should have started with something simpler. Like walking.” I fought the urge to stick out my tongue. “I’m not used to wearing shoes with thick soles.” “Should I send for your slippers?” “No,” I gritted out, backing away again as he advanced, this time a full step. His eyes narrowed, his features hardening. And when he moved again, it was a blur. The knife flew out of my hand before I even
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