"Sanity is vastly overrated," he muttered, though the fire had gone out of his posture. He felt suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline crashing. "And I am not trying to manage you. I am trying to... ensure you survive the week. Which seems to be a Herculean task given your propensity for attracting danger."
"I attract danger?" Isadora let out a scoff of disbelief. "I sell silk! I measure waists! The most dangerous thing I did before I met you was prick my finger on a needle! You are the danger, Caelan. You and your family and this cursed house!"
"Then leave," he said. The words tasted like bile. "If I am the danger, Isadora, then walk out that door. Go back to your shop. Go back to your safe, mortal life where men don't drink blood and shadows don't bite."
He waited. Every muscle in his body was tensed, waiting for her to turn around. Part of him—the noble, self-sacrificing part that was usually dormant—prayed she would go. It would be better for her. Safer.
