The candlelight glinted sharply off the blade of her knife as she set it on the table before her. “So,” she said.
“So,” he returned. His chair creaked as he shifted positions, resting his massive arms on the table before him.
“We have an agreement then?”
He nodded. “Two weeks. I’ll have it for you then.”
She traced the edge of the knife handle with her finger gently, languidly. “Two weeks?”
“If I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. Not a day longer. I’m a man of my word. And,” he said, a hard glint coming into his eye, “I don’t need weapons to prove it, either.”
A corner of her mouth curled up. This one had spunk. Attitude. She liked him. But she said nothing. She was not allowed to like him.
He held her eyes for just a moment longer than he should have before looking away. Ordinarily, she would have been offended, but something about his look made her breath catch in her throat. Was he—? She scrutinized him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. But the prophecy had said the man would have bright eyes, didn’t it? She would swear an oath that it did. She drummed her fingers on the table, uncertain.
He looked up at her, then glanced down at her knife. He looked up again. “Well? Was there something else you wanted?”
The candlelight flickered and, for a moment, reflected off of his eyes. She gasped. Could he know? Only three others knew about her part of the prophecy, and two of those were dead. Of course he couldn’t know. But she did. Suddenly everything about him interested her: his hands, large and calloused; his broad chest; his stubbled chin. Could it be?
“Yes,” she breathed.
