"You're Fae!?" I whisper-gasp incredulously, staring at Dorian's handsome face through eyes as wide as saucers.
My racing mind reels backwards, flashing through the images of him hanging in the simple frames on the wall of Muirgia McEttigan's bedroom. The resemblance to his father is truly uncanny. If not for Dorian's fuller, more sensuous mouth, even I might not be able to tell the two apart comparing images of them both at the same age.
Something elusive and fleeting tickles at the back of my mind and I can't take my eyes off his lips as he answers, "I don't know, Sandy. Obviously, I don't smell like a Fae—."
"No," Sean interrupts, his tone prickly. "You smell like a Were."
