“I like the ice best,” Dorian admitted at last, realizing he’d let the silence drip on. “It was the first element that came out of me—I don’t know why.” “You’re not a cold person.” He arched a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?” Manon studied him. “You can descend to those levels when you are angry, when your friends are threatened. But you are not cold, not at heart. I’ve seen men who are, and you are not.” “Neither are you,” he said a bit quietly. The wrong thing to say. Manon stiffened, her chin lifting. “I am one hundred seventeen years old,” she said flatly. “I have spent the
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