Page 18 of The Scribe (Irin Chronicles 1)

“It’s unusual.”

“Call me unusual, then.”

She smiled then, a genuine smile untouched by cynicism. “Yeah, I like it. I’m not the most social person in the world.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Wow. That bad, huh?”

He shrugged. “You just seem to like your own space. I don’t see you chatting with many strangers like a lot of the tourists do.”

“My own space?” Her smile hinted at some inside joke. “You could call it that. I don’t travel much in cities. They’re very…”

He waited, but she seemed to expect him to interrupt. He didn’t.

Finally, she said, “They’re crowded. Noisy. Too many smells and sounds and sights all crashing together. I don’t like them, usually.”

“Not even Constantinople?”

“You mean Istanbul?”

He grinned. “Are we going there?”

“We better not.” She laughed again. “I’ll have that song stuck in my head for days. But to answer your question, despite the noise and the people and the heat—”

“The heat is something else, isn’t it?”

“No worse than L.A. most summers. Despite all that…” Her eyes drifted toward the water. “I like it here. There’s something about it, isn’t there? It’s…” Her eyes sought his. “Seductive.”

Malachi could feel the tattoos covering his chest pulse.No… Not going there, either.

He straightened and cleared his throat. “It’s a fascinating place. Very complicated history.”

“I can tell.” Her golden-brown eyes seemed to mock him. “Just by looking at it.”

Silence fell between them as she held his stare. The wind picked up, teasing the fine hair at the back of his neck. He saw her glance down at the tattoo work along his collar, but she said nothing. Asked nothing.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Really?”

“Headaches.” The mask fell over her face. She had answered without thinking. He was betting she didn’t do that often.

“Headaches?”

“The condition I mentioned the other day.” She waved a careless hand. “There’s a doctor here who specializes in it. The appointment last week, remember? I was referred to him. And you don’t need to report that to Carl or my mom.”

“I don’t report on your activities to anyone unless I think there is some aspect of your safety in jeopardy. I’m not a stalker; I’m a guard.”

“Good.”

“Is he helping?”

“The doctor?”

“Yes.”

Her head bobbed back and forth, considering the question. “Maybe. I try not to get my hopes up, you know? I’ve lived with the headaches my whole life.”

Malachi knew all about not getting his hopes up. So why was he having a hard time believing Damien?

---