“No.”
Fane planted his fists on his hips, his brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities. “He’s an assassin. It could be a demand for a hit.”
“I can’t see him hesitating over a death or two,” Serra muttered. “His morals are obviously flexible.”
“True.” Fane glanced toward the inner office. “He didn’t say anything about the kidnapper?”
She shivered. “No.”
He stepped toward her, his fingers cupping the side of her neck in a gesture of comfort. “It’s going to be okay, Serra.”
She could count on one hand how many times Fane had deliberately touched her. She sucked in a sharp breath as the heat of his palm seared her skin.
“How is it going to be okay?” She licked her dry lips, nearly overwhelmed by the impulse to lean into his touch. “If I don’t find Molly then I die.”
His thumb stroked the tight line of her jaw. “Then we find her.”
“We?”
“You aren’t alone. I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”
For a vulnerable second, Serra allowed herself to become lost in the dark promise of his gaze. Fane was a master at making everyone around him feel safe. As if nothing bad could ever happen when he was near.
No doubt it came with the job of guardian.
But even as she lifted a hand to touch the fingers that pressed against her neck, she was abruptly stiffening as she realized exactly why he was touching her . . . offering her the attention and tender care she’d so desperately desired over the years.
“Damsel in distress,” she breathed.
Fane’s jaw clenched as she sharply pulled from his touch. “What?”
She shook her head. Even on the verge of death she was an idiot.
Ugh.
“Tell me about the assassins,” she said, fiercely latching on to the only thing that truly mattered. Finding a way to rid her body of the toxin flowing through it. “Why haven’t I heard about them?”
Fane studied her rigid expression. He wasn’t stupid. He had to sense her retreat. But thankfully, he knew better than to press her.
“They were the dirty little secret of the monks,” he said as he instead answered her question.
The monks?
Serra shook her head. She shouldn’t be surprised. They’d always been secretive, fiercely guarding their privacy. Who knew what went on behind the protected walls of their monasteries?
“Are they Sentinels?” she demanded.
“They’re similar. They have the heightened senses of Sentinels, but they usually aren’t as physically strong.” Fane explained. “Their power is their magic.”
Which explained the witch mark.
She shivered.
The thought of a powerful witch being trained as a Sentinel was enough to give anyone nightmares.
It was no wonder the monks kept them secret.
“Why aren’t they tattooed?”