I pulled back. Rollins immediately felt it. His hands gripped still at my waist, and his head got up, analyzing my face as he always did in a lightning-scan. "What is it?" "I heard something," I said to myself. "Outside the door." Instead, he did not interrogate me. He did not say to me that I was imagining it. That was among the things that I liked about him. He released me in one smooth motion and walked across the room, and his hand reached the door handle. He was in no hurry—cautious, calm, the manner in which he did things at the time his instincts were working. He pulled it open. The corridor was empty. The torches in their brackets were burning low and illuminated bare rock with amber light. Nothing moved. No threat, no foot, no shadow retreating around a corner. Just silence. Rollins stood in the doorway a long time, thoughtless and alert, with a tilted head. I realized that he was sniffing the air. His wolf was right beneath the surface—I could feel it, the stiff, u
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