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The paintress was so close, Sciel could feel each exhale blow softly against her face. Clea smelled like a combination of newly mixed paint and freshly bloomed flowers.
The rules of the game had shifted.
When Clea leaned in, ever so slightly, Sciel thought she might kiss her. She hoped she would. Alas, her lips ghosted against the edge of Sciel's ear instead, the words murmured in a throaty whisper:
"Don't start something you don't have the strength to finish.”
The pressure eased as Clea released her, leaving Sciel gasping alone against the wall, asking herself, what the fuck just happened?
When Renoir Dessendre begs his eldest daughter to save his youngest, neither of them expect a certain former teacher-turned-Expeditioner to tumble out instead.
Now trapped in the middle of a Paris torn by war and a family torn by grief, Sciel learns to navigate the complicated politics of the Dessendre family while discovering what it means to exist in this strange new world.
It doesn't help that Clea, Maelle's dangerously attractive sister, can't stand the sight of her, distrust written in every line of her watchful face.
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