For the first time, I see Zevrin genuinely offended—by something as absurd as a punch of a peach. His pride hangs in the air, bruised and taut, while Mel and he both watch me, waiting for an order, taking the side of one of them.
I give them nothing. Instead, I turn on my heel, feigning obliviousness, and stride toward the carriage. It's amusing, really, how long it takes Draven to snap out of the spell he's under.
Once inside, I settle into my seat like a king reclaiming his throne. Mel isn't so graceful. She's thrown in after me, shoved by someone who doesn't care about the bruises she's collecting. She lands hard and, after one panicked glance at her company, doesn't bother to resist.
Smart, I'll give her that. Not many can keep their wits about them when forced into a carriage with two men who've earned their reputations for spilling rivers of blood of her people.
For a barmaid—and a supposed secretary—she's remarkably disheveled.
