"Who helped you with Gabriel's detailing?" he asked softly, almost conversationally, as if they were exchanging ideas over wine instead of standing in a prison reeking of fear.
She shook her head violently, jaw clenched, trying to push the image away—his skin, the scar, the shape of his shoulders. The illusion had been too perfect. Too close. Someone had seen him that intimately. Someone had described him in detail.
Damian's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't guesswork. You knew the exact placement of his scar. The way he leans when he breathes in deeply. You even got the shade of his skin under ether light—how it flushes."
He crouched down to her level, his voice now a whisper of wrath.
"Who gave you that knowledge?"
Patricia's breath caught, panic flickering through her eyes like a flame starved of air.
A name fluttered to the edge of her thoughts, unspoken, buried beneath layers of caution and fear. But Damian didn't need her to say it.
He saw it.
