Her first thought was to drop the packages and head straight back out the door, but then Burn's golden eyes gleaming across the room met hers. He and Dorian sat at a low table toward the back of the inn. Upon seeing her, the giant Wolfy nudged his companion, and the silver-haired thief looked up. Grinned. Fangs. He set down his cards and slipped out of his chair, smoothly navigating the room to her side. “You look no worse for wear, sweetness,” he said, taking her by the elbow. But he didn't offer to help her with the packages, which was irritating, since she felt like her arms were made of strained rope. “Did Crash say when he will be back?” “No,” she muttered. She wondered how many times they had done this before—sat in some smoky rundown tavern while the assassin did his dirty work. “Ah, then it should be soon. Come sit by us. Your hands are like ice.” Finally he took the bags from her and slipped his hand into her cold grasp.
