The man in front of me, the one who'd caught me listening through open doors, was wickedly sensuous, with eyes the shade of the sunlight cast through leaves in the orangery and long sweeps of red hair gleaming under candlelight. He didn't stop grinning at me, two pink scars slashing through his handsome face on one cheek, a third, smaller one on the opposite eyebrow. "Conall," Asterion said, flat and hard. "You're not meant to—" "Come in, I know. But you see, I'm incorrigible, so it's not my fault," Conall answered. He was bursting to the seams with humor and joy. The wink of his eye promised
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