Isolde gave up. She turned around, ready to return to room 429, but froze. Severin was suddenly right behind her. God knows how long he'd been standing there. His head tilted slightly to the left, and one eyebrow raised as he glanced between Nikhael and Isolde like he was sizing them up for a kill.
This was one of the many things Isolde hated about Severin. The bastard could move without a fucking sound—typical of a professional killer whose footsteps were lighter than air.
There was a faint blood splatter on Severin's cheek. Isolde was sure more was on his shirt, but the dark black fabric made it hard to see. The blood was only visible where it had stained his skin.
"Why the fuck aren't you in your room?" Severin asked, stripping off his black leather gloves one finger at a time before tossing them to Nikhael.
"I couldn't sleep," Isolde replied flatly.
