I could barely comprehend what just happened, who this man was, and why he looked like he was on his way to some kind of Renaissance Fair for Badasses. But I did know that the Stormkind didn’t attack him.
It moved away from him.
Whoever this man was, the Stormkind was terrified of him.
“You have devoured already, Wild One,” the man said, his voice deep and raspy, like gravel
mixing with smoke. “This one is not yours.”
The man turned on his heel and looked at me. My heart skipped another beat.
He was in his late forties, and alarmingly handsome. The shockingly silver hair was tied at the back of his neck, displaying a hawkish face of sharp angles. His skin was paler than my own, and he didn’t have so much as a single blemish or age-worn scar. The man looked perfect, in a harsh way.
Except for his eyes.
They were so dark they appeared black to me, twin voids that threatened to suck the life from me if I stared into them for too long. I saw nothing in them, no emotion that I could recognize. This man chilled me worse than any part of the storm I was trapped in.
When he spoke again, I felt my heart freeze.
“This one is mine.”
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