Page 50 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

He stands, and even in the nice clothing the space dwarfs him.

“Is this…is this the entire floor of this building?”

She shakes her head. “Just a corner.”

“This place must be…Christ, a few million dollars?”

“Probably,” she answers. “If I paid for it.”

This stumps him, and he gapes at her for a long moment, before digging his phone out and snapping a picture of her in front of the window.

She jerks back, one hand up to snatch the phone away from him, before she stops herself.

“Why?” she demands, baring her teeth.

“Because Chloe won’t believe this,” he informs her, already tapping on the phone. “Because we’ve been living in a tiny cabin for a year and you casually have places like this.”

She swallows down whatever reaction she’s having, letting him have the moment, before he stuffs the phone into his pocket and surveys more of the room.

The kitchen is nestled into one corner, with an expansive wooden table left unused. A fridge runs, completely empty, but still thrums with electricity.

A makeshift office, only marked off from the room withthe packed double-sided bookshelves, and a grand mahogany desk and a plush chair in the center. They still gleam with newness.

The bed is nestled against one wall, giant curtains around it, as if it could shield from the light pouring in from the windows. A wardrobe rod stands alone, wire hangers carefully placed on it, and empty.

“And this place is safe?” he asks.

“Safe enough,” she replies. The wards shine through, barely any degradation over time, easy to fix.

The ley line of the city pours through, far enough away that she’s out of the main thoroughfare, close enough that she could reach out and taste it if she wants.

Huffing out another breath, Gurlien wanders over to the bookshelves, and she smiles at his back. Of course he went there first.

“You can hang up any clothing you want,” she says, and he startles away from the books, like he’s doing something he’s not supposed to. “You’ll need food, but otherwise it’s fine.”

She crosses to the other corner of the apartment, gauging the distance with her steps. It’s not the cave, but there’s more room than the motorhome and the bunker combined.

“Pull the leash, first,” she instructs, and he blinks at her, owlish behind his glasses. “Compel me over there.”

It takes a moment, before he straightens, any smile and friendliness evaporating from his face.

“You still think I can do this?”

“You disrupted Johnsin,” she challenges, though her heart is pounding, “I want to see what else you can do.”

“There’s a big difference between breaking a concentration and compelling someone,” he cautions and just then,there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something in between insecurity and…eagerness.

“Yeah,” Ambra replies. “Practice.”

Of course there’s more, he’d know it, too.

His chin lifts, jaw tight and shoulders back, and his hands loosen in a stance she’s seen from hundreds of magicians.

A thrill goes down her back.

Dud or not, traumatic accident or not, this is Gurlien the magician, and each line of his body belies years upon years of training.

She grins at him, at the change.

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