Page 196 of The Devil May Care

“What?” he says, dropping the contact and stepping back.

“Nothing.” I force a shrug. “You moved weird.”

His eyes narrow, searching mine like he’s weighing the truth of it. Then he waves me forward again.

“Your lead foot. Fix it.”

I do, but now my heart beats in my ears. That shimmer wasn’t nothing. I know what I saw, but didn’t Caziel tell me a glamor was like clothing? It would be rude to point out his perceived nakedness.

We circle each other, the slow scrape of my boots against the ring floor loud in the otherwise empty training space. My shoulders ache from holding the guard he keeps correcting, but I grit my teeth and keepit steady. Varo’s watching me the way a predator watches the exact moment prey tires enough to make a mistake. He lunges, and I sidestep too wide, giving him my flank. His hand darts out, not to strike, but to catch my wrist and turn it, forcing me to pivot with him.

And it happens again. That shimmer, crawling up his forearm like heat distortion off hot stone. Except this time, it doesn’t stop at his skin, flickering over his jaw, sharpening his cheekbones, drains the warm bronze from his complexion into something too pale, almost iridescent. His eyes catching the light in a strange way, no longer their usual dark hue but a pale, opalescent gleam.

I freeze. Not in fear, exactly. More like my brain can’t reconcile what I’m seeing.

“Why are you staring?” His tone is flat, but there’s an edge under it.

I shake my head, trying to play it off.

“I’m not.” I lie, “You looked different for a second. Thought maybe—”

He stops moving. Not the stillness of a man pausing mid-lesson—this is the kind of stillness that comes before a blade drops.

“What,” he says, each letter cut clean.

“Nothing.” I force a laugh, too quick, too thin. “Just a trick of the light, maybe. You’ve got the whole sweaty-warrior glow thing going—”

Before I can finish, his hand is around my throat. Not crushing, but firm enough that the ring tilts under my feet from how fast he closed the distance. His other hand is braced at my hip, keeping me from stumbling backward.

“Tell me,” he demands, words low and dangerous, “exactly what you saw.”

George lets out a warning chirp from the ring’s edge, tail puffed, but I raise a hand to keep him where he is. My heart’s pounding so hard I feel it in my fingertips.

“I’ve seen glamor shift before,” I manage, meeting Varo’s eyes. “Caziel’s does it sometimes. It’s like clothes, right? It can slip.”

His grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to remind me he could snap my neck before I draw another breath.

“No,” he says, and there’s no give in the word. “Not like that. Not for me. What you saw…” His gaze sharpens, searching my face. “It can’t be seen. Not if I want to stay alive.”

“Alive?” I frown, confusion warring with the awareness that I’mtreading in dangerous territory. “You’re acting like I just saw your death warrant.”

“You did.” His voice is so flat, so certain, that my skin prickles.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The training ring feels too still, too empty, the shadows along the walls stretching like they’re leaning in to listen. Varo’s hand eases from my throat, but only so he can step back a pace, watching me like he’s measuring whether I’m going to bolt or lunge.

“You can’t unsee,” he says, tone low but deadly sure. “Which means you’ve already put a blade at both our throats, whether you meant to or not.”

I cross my arms, partly to keep my hands from shaking.

“Or,” I say slowly, “you could just tell me what I’m looking at instead of trying to terrify me into pretending it didn’t happen.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile, more like the ghost of one, bitter and sharp.

“Fine. But you don’t get to look away. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t hear this. When you walk out of here, you’ll carry it like a brand.”

And then the air ripples. It’s not a shimmer this time, it’s like watching a veil be yanked away, like someone snuffed out the version of him I’ve always seen and left the truth standing in its place. Gone is the reddish warmth of Daemari skin. He’s pale. Not the sickly, sallow kind, this is pale like frost under moonlight, an almost luminous sheen to his skin. His hair looks whiter, starker against it, and his eyes, God, his eyes are not red at all. They’re opalescent, milky white with shifting colors buried deep, like oil on snow.

No horns. No tail. No embermark curling over the chest like I’ve seen flash from Caziel.