His Bride Of Revenge
But then the voice came again, closer this time, laced with a familiar kind of teenage arrogance.
“Unless there's another giant walking around here in a winter coat, I’m talking to you.”
I turned slowly.
A boy stood a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was tall for his age, lean and wiry, with dark hair that refused to stay neat and eyes that were too familiar.
He looked about fourteen. He was at that age when boys are all limbs and bold questions, old enough to be cocky but young enough not to know what real fear feels like yet. He stared at my face for a long, quiet moment, his brows lifting in slow realization.
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