The question came out small, almost silent. Declan should have stepped away. He should have remembered what he was, what people would say, what Clary herself must be imagining. But the ballroom still smelled like hollow perfume. Her song still hung in the air like a wound. He looked down at her and said the only word his ruined heart could produce. “Seen.” By eight the next morning, Arthur dropped a file onto Declan’s desk. “Clary Davies,” he said. “Twenty-six. South Boston address, though the neighborhood calls that block the…
Clary’s hand tightened around the plastic spray bottle until her knuckles turned white. She was pressed against the cold marble vanity, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. She didn’t know who this man was—only that his tailored suit looked like it had been cut from the same cloth as the men who had broken her brother’s arm.
