BREAKTHROUGH AND BREAK
The weapon in Corvin's hand wasn't pointed at Damon.
I felt it through the bond before I reached the study—Damon's alarm, his confusion, his recognition that the threat he expected wasn't the threat he faced. I ran, the diary still clutched in my hand, my mother's warnings burning in my mind.
I burst through the door to find them frozen in strange tableau. Corvin—if that was his name, if that had ever been his name—standing in the doorway, a knife visible but lowered, his face carrying exhaustion rather than aggression. Damon at his desk, half-risen, his own weapon drawn but not firing, his eyes reading something in the intruder that I couldn't yet see.
