“No. I didn’t.” Trent set his pen down. “Ms. Morgan was a surprise. But I did offer her a job,” he said, and Francis seemed to sink in on himself. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. I could smell the fear on him, sour and sharp.

“Not your job,” Trent said, his disgust obvious. “Tell me what she is afraid of. What makes her angry? What does she cherish most in the world?”

Francis’s breath came in a relieved sound. He shifted, going to cross his legs but hesitating at the last, awkward moment. “I don’t know. The mall? I try to stay away from her.”

“Yes,” Trent said in his liquid voice. “Let’s talk about that for a moment. After reviewing your activities the past few days, one might question your loyalties—Mr. Percy.”

Francis crossed his arms. His breathing increased and he began to fidget. Jonathan took a menacing step closer, and Francis tossed his hair from his eyes again.

Trent went frighteningly intense. “Do you know how much it cost me to quiet the rumors when you ran from the I.S. records vault?”

He licked his lips. “Rachel said they’d think I was helping her. That I should run.”

“And so you ran.”

“She said—”

“And yesterday?” Trent interrupted. “You drove her to me.”

The tight anger in his voice pulled me out of my hut. Trent leaned forward, and I swear I heard Francis’s blood freeze. The businessman aura fell from Trent. What was left was domination. Natural, unequivocal domination.

I stared at the change. Trent’s mien was nothing like a vamp’s aura of power. It was like unsweetened chocolate: strong and bitter and oily, leaving an uncomfortable aftertaste. Vamps used fear to command respect. Trent simply demanded it. And from what I could see, the thought never crossed his mind that it would be denied.

“She used you to get to me,” he whispered, his eyes unblinking. “That is inexcusable.”

Francis cowered in his chair, his thin face drawn and his eyes wide. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It won’t happen again.”

Trent’s breath slipped into him in a slow gathering of will, and I watched in horrified fascination. The yellow fish in the tank splashed at the surface. The hair on my back pricked. My pulse raced. Something rose, as nebulous as a whiff of ozone. Trent’s face went empty and ageless. A haze seemed to edge him, and I wondered in a sudden shock if he were pulling on the ever-after. He’d have to be a witch or human to do that. And I would’ve sworn he was neither.

I tore my eyes from Trent. Jonathan’s thin lips were parted. He stood behind Francis, watching Trent with a slack mix of surprise and worry. This raw show of anger wasn’t expected, even by him. His hand rose in protest, hesitant and fearful.

As if in response, Trent’s eye twitched and his breath eased out. The fish hid behind the coral. My skin eerily rippled, settling my fur flat. Jonathan’s fingers trembled, and he made fists of them. Still not looking from Francis, Trent intoned, “I know it won’t.”