Morning sunlight poured into the villa, turning the floors to gold. Mara stood in the courtyard, arms crossed, watching as Damon tossed a wooden practice knife effortlessly from hand to hand.

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” she muttered.

“You don’t have to see,” Damon replied flatly. “You only have to listen.” He flicked his wrist, and the knife spun before he caught it again. “Last night proved it—there’s a traitor in this house. If they come for you, I won’t ...