The vein at Edda's temple became visible.
Her fist found his arm before the sentence was fully finished—a compact, controlled punch that had thirty years of muscle behind it, landing on his bicep with a crack that made two of Raven's women flinch at the pool edge of the street.
"Shut up," she said, very precisely. "You punk." Another hit, to his shoulder this time. "Can't you see—you brat—in front of you have arrived the—"
"Wait."
Raven's hand found her shoulder.
Not grabbing. Just resting. The weight of it landed on her like a beam of sunlight that turned out to have mass—warm, present.
She stopped speaking immediately.
She was furious about stopping immediately.
"You don't need to say that," he said.
He looked at Jacob.
