Still clenching my head, I turned toward Priscilla. Her hands were clasped together in prayer, her fingers intertwined with a devotion that made my stomach churn. The dim glow of the fireflies painted a reverent light around her, as if the world itself acknowledged her misplaced faith.
I scowled.
'Iwant to punch that look off her face.'
Controlling my intrusive thoughts, I forced my expression to settle, though the twisted grin that stretched across my lips did little to hide my irritation.
"How long have you all been praying to Skin?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Priscilla's face twisted in a scowl, her brows knitting together in immediate disapproval. "Lord Skin," she corrected sharply, as if the title mattered.
I responded with a glare—cold, unyielding, and filled with the kind of malice that could make a seasoned warrior hesitate. She flinched.
"I asked you a question," I repeated, my voice low and deadly. "Just answer it."
