She stood three feet from him.
Up close, the pendant at her sternum blazed—pulsing its frantic, furious red against the thin fabric of her gown with the energy of something trying desperately to communicate a message that its owner had decided was not worth reading.
Her silver hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her gold irises—sharp, ancient, the color of coins older than most kingdoms—moved over him with an attention that was neither clinical nor casual. Something in between. The attention of a collector who has acquired something unusual and is still in the process of determining its exact value.
Her lips parted.
The long, elegant line of her fang caught the torchlight as she leaned toward his throat—unhurried, precise. The motion of a woman exercising a right she did not feel the need to justify.
"Who are you," she said quietly, voice like cold silk dragged across old stone, "to even 'stop' me from looking at you?"
