Morpheus was not a figment. Arabella's eyes tracked the man's feet: a polished boot planted on the splintered floor, crushing the debris beneath as if the ground itself were merely scenery. His face looked the same as ever— pale, composed— and despite the loss of some of his strongest men, an almost pleased smile hovered at his lips. Not triumph, exactly; something quieter and colder: delight.
"A talk?" she snapped, raising her guarded hand. "I don't need to talk to you."
"Even if it could endanger that man?" Morpheus's mouth barely twitched when he said the words, but his tone was casual, like a man remarking on the weather. The rest of his face remained serenely unreadable.
Cassius. The name hit Arabella like a stone. Her fists clenched until her nails dug crescents into her palms. What could possibly put him at risk?
