Lyander stopped behind Liora, his voice just a breath behind her ear. "Is your message to Henry really that important?"
Liora turned to face him, her big ashen eyes meeting his. This close, he could see the fear in them, but there was no trembling. No weakness. Just iron wrapped in silk.
"I know my name and my memory doesn't matter," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "My mission is my identity. Whatever I was before . . . it's irrelevant. All that matters is that I get to Henry and tell him an urgent message. After that . . ." She exhaled. "You can kill me if you must. I won't fight it."
Kill her?
His wolf bristled.
"You're not going to kill her," the beast grumbled inside his head. "I like her. Pretty voice. Pretty face. Pretty everything."
Lyander ignored him. Barely.
He stared down at Liora, taking in the curve of her jaw, the wild defiance in her stance, the stubbornness in her tone. She was trembling slightly—but still standing her ground.
