“I’m not going to hurt you,” he called out, frustrated. “How many times do I have to tell you that I can’t kill you before you actually believe me?” She halted at that, her crazed mind devouring the reminder as the nosta burned against her skin. It was no wonder she couldn’t decide whether to fear him; it was obvious now why she wavered so much on the subject, why she struggled to feel danger in his presence. Her instincts were not addled; it was only that he’d been ordered by the devil not to harm her. She had some kind of immunity.
