The Devil's Debt
She clamped her jaw shut, forcing herself to swallow it back down.
Still, she turned the page. Each movement of her hand felt like forcing herself to press against fire.
The photograph of her target stared up at her next. Darius Veynar.
He was in his mid-forties, though the hard lines carved into his face made him look older. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth set in a permanent sneer, eyes that glinted like a predator’s—eyes that seemed, even through the grainy surveillance capture, to follow her. His expression carried no warmth, no humanity. Only hunger.
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