Page 38 of The Secrets of Jane: Reborn
He licks his bottom lip. “A man named The Basilisk.”
S O R E N
Jane’s heart flickers around in that chest, small emotions creeping through only to be suffocated like they shouldn’t have escaped.
Lies.
She’s covering something up.
“You heard of the Basilisk?” I ask.
“Donna mentioned him.” Her reply is fast, and her stare waivers.
“And whatabout?” I want to grab the back of her hair so badly so I can stare into those hazel eyes and find the truth—I can read someone the best when their heartbeat is nearly right next to mine.
I don’t like, in any capacity, that Jane is hiding something from me. Not now. If I’m to fight even the thinnest sliver of a shadow that gets near her, I need to knoweverything.
She can’t stop looking out at the room, sometimes even adjusting her position as if it matters. She’s never had to worry about appearance before. From what we’ve talked about, it sounds like she’s always had tohideher identity, even as a child, not embrace it.
That discomfort doesn’t help with getting to her truth.
“Well, Donna said that the Basilisk is rumored to be in the Crimson Isles, but I guess it’s a skin shifter, and he’shere, in Skull’s Row.”
Well, it seems like Ritter has good intel. That’s not enough, though. Why does it feel like Jane has somethingelseto share, like that secretive truth is hiding behind the Basilisk?
She tuts slightly, leaning in. “So what do you mean he was yourmentor?”
“He’s ten years my senior and was in Death’s Wing when I joined. He literally trained me in all I know, especially given he’s aSensor. I guess we’re called that now.”
Her gaze stares intently at mine, as if she’s trying to summon every ounce of will to try and read me like I read her. “I don’t—but Donna spoke of him like it’s a bad thing. Do the others know?”
“I don’t believe they do, but it’s also not a secret. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years, so whatever he’s doing now is not related to me.”
I had heard he was here, but have no fucking idea as to why. Seeing him away from his lands is enough to make one’s mindspin; heneverleaves. Not anymore. “I think it’s time we get some privacy,” I suggest, even though it’s more of an order.
“Where? Even if you can move, I don’t even know where to go.”
“You have a room here. Not that you’ll be there long with how fast things are operating, but we have a lot to discuss. And I’m growing tired of these prattling idiots.” I glare at those around that are starting to get too obvious in their nosy fucking ways.
There’s such a wave of relief within Jane at the suggestion of us getting privacy that I don’t care what she has to say; I’m done lying here now that the dust is settling.
Rising to my feet is already easier than earlier, my movements having been reduced to an unsteady mess. My shallow, uneven breathing is composed now. So far, one of my absolute favorite perks of being high-ranking, or surrounded by those with the damn titles I loathe, is they do come with access to many necessities.
We’ll need it.
When I’m on my feet, the rowdiness ebbs like a receding tide, many hands drifting instinctually to their weapon. Rorge—sitting in a chair—doesn’t move at first, lifting only his gaze to examine the disruption. He might be old, but his clearcut stare tells me he’s far from useless. His loud cough disrupts the silence, clearing his throat as he stands and nears me, running a hand over his wiry beard. “Why’re you standing?”
“Jane would like to retire to her room.”
Jane pops up at being mentioned, about to protest just on the sheer principle of being spoken for, but I can tell she’s also curious. Tired, even? “Yes,Iwould like to go to my room now,” she says, looking up at me.
Rorge sucks his lips to his teeth, taking me in before he gives a languid blink and nods to follow him. As soon as I step forward, Rorge peers over his shoulder. “Only her.”
“I’m going with her.Everywhere,” I reply, speaking for Ritter, since he spoke for me. “And that’s non-negotiable. Ask your boss if you’re worried.”
Rorge’s dry lips part, and I can tell he’s uncertain if I mean what I said or not. His weathered face, marked by years of harsh living, deadpans as he narrows his one good eye while the other, veined and milky, stares right at me as if he canseemy aura. I’ve witnessed enough in this world to know that, to one end or another, he can read me somehow.
Fascinating.
