A Girl Named Calamity (Alyria 1)

I swallowed hard and tried to get my heart rate under control. Clearly, the man had some issues, but he knew about the song and what happened to me, and I needed to find out more so I could prevent it from happening again. I paced back and forth in front of the door for a few minutes before I worked up enough courage.

I slammed my door on the way out and opened the one door in the hall he had skipped over when he was probably amusing himself with my panic.

I almost spun around and walked out because he wasn’t wearing a shirt—but I couldn’t, because I was enthralled. The most exquisite brand I had ever seen was on his back. A wolf’s head howling at the moon took up the area between his shoulder blades. The fur around its neck bristled and moved as though it were alive.

It was magic. And I had only seen magic a few times when shows came through Alger. Grandmother could do simple enchantments, but nothing like this.

I noticed a scar the width of a blade on his side as he turned around. The brand consisting of three black rings around his forearm made me pause. It looked like the brand of the Titans, but I couldn’t be sure. He didn’t dress like a Titan, and his hair was too long, nearly reaching his shoulders.

But he surely had the build.

My eyes took on a mind of their own and roamed over his body. From his broad shoulders down to his muscled arms and washboard stomach. My face flushed as I followed the trail of hair on his lower stomach until it disappeared into the waistband of his pants.

My heartbeat quickened as I realized how out of place I was. The thought that he could crush my skull with one of his hands had me swallowing nervously.

What the hell am I doing in here?

“I guess you expect me to pay you?” he asked. And I was glad for the distraction, even if I didn’t understand what he was asking.

My brows knitted. “What?”

“I ruined your night with the drunk so I might as well pay you.”

My grandmother always told me I was hotheaded and that I needed to learn how to control it. I’d always pushed her comments aside. Maybe if I had learned what she suggested, I wouldn’t have narrowed my eyes, and I wouldn’t have snapped, “Do I look like a prostitute?”

Apparently, it took only two times of being mistaken for a whore to make me angry enough to forget everything Grandmother taught me. And now I realized why she did . . .

I expected a quick death by knife after that, because who in their right mind talks to an assassin like he’s stupid? But he only dropped his gaze to my body. I looked down as well while realizing I had lost all my sense. I’d forgotten I only wore my long-sleeve shirt that came to the top of my thighs. I chewed on my lip, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. I didn’t have the sense to dress before I barged into his room? He’d pretended he was going to ‘use my services’ only minutes ago while ignoring all my protests as if it were just a game all prostitutes played.

The fact was, I had been more concerned about the song and when it would begin again than what I was wearing.

At the very least, the sleeves covered my cuffs.

I pushed the vulnerability rushing me aside and leveled my gaze on him. “Look, I need to know what happened. I won’t make it out of the city if I don’t even know what’s after me.”

He crossed his arms, and I tried not to stare at his body, I really did, but I blamed the issue on him. A gentleman would have put a shirt on by now. But I guessed that assassins didn’t follow those rules, and I was sort of being a hypocrite.

“Saccars sing their song into any mind they wish. It sings you to them or to do certain things. When the connection is broken, the pain is intense physically and emotionally. It takes days for some to get over. Now, what I want to know is why they wanted you. They are usually quiet people and don’t bother anyone unless provoked.”

“I don’t know,” I said vaguely as I looked around the room. I was sure that was the classic ‘I’m lying’ tell, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from looking dishonest.

“I’m sure you don’t.” He tilted his head and looked me over meticulously, as though he knew what I was all about. When he was done, I was sure he saw into my soul and the ti

ny scar on my knee from running through a rose bush as a child.

I shifted to my other foot, trying to gain some ground here. “How do I stop them from getting into my head?”

“Time and practice. Which you don’t have.”

I tensed. Could he have at least acted like he cared? It was common courtesy not to be indifferent about someone’s imminent death. But he did save me. Maybe he was only acting indifferent . . .?

“You could help me,” I supplied.

“I could. But I won’t.”

Okay . . . probably not acting then.

“Why did you save me, then?”