The first time Cecilia had been pushed into a wall by this man, it had also been in this kind of alleyway. She'd managed to use gold coins to rage bait the magnificent Dragon Lord.
And now…
"Are you investigating me?"
A low thrum of his voice vibrated in the narrow space between the cool stone wall at her back and the heat of his body in front of her.
Oathran had leaned in, his face lowering to hers, the usual polite distance incinerated. A subtle scowl was blooming between his eyebrows, tightening the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and hardening the curve of his lips.
Come to think of it, this man never scowled at her.
Ever.
The real Oathran had given her looks of weariness, of ancient sorrow, of gentle, devastating affection. He had glared at her once, in white-hot anger when she'd confessed she wasn't a real saintess.
But a scowl? This petty, human, frustrated expression? It was… never.
