Cain rolled his shoulders, confidence bleeding into every movement as he took a step closer to Daemon.
He ignored the corpse at his feet, the twisted remains of the old witch who had died without so much as a fight.
"You speak well," Cain said, grinning. "But words are just that-words. Show me why we should fear you."
Daemon's head tilted slightly, his unreadable gaze settling on Cain. For a long moment, he did nothing. No shift in stance. No drawn weapon. Just a man standing in a room that suddenly felt too small.
Then he sighed.
A quiet exhale, as if Cain had just asked the most tedious favor in existence.
His next step barely made a sound, yet the floor cracked beneath his heel.
Nick's stomach tightened. Something was wrong. His instincts screamed at him to run.
Daemon turned his head slightly toward him. A small, almost imperceptible glance. As if he had heard Nick's fear.
