HIS EYES were golden flames. His body was strained, his muscles pulled taut—and he looked almost like a beast in a human form. He was—extraordinary. An art, Gods-given sculptured frame. His chest was bare and he was already streaked with blood. His mouth, when it opened, dripped with the fury of beasts. He was inhumane, at that moment, looking like he was a creature of some sort—living in the wild, feral. I was amazed at him, for a million seconds, before I realized that it was really him, Icarus, there, in the flesh, and he came for me.
“Soraya,” he breathed. My name sounded like an oath on his lips.
“You.” The old woman emerged from the crowd. She knew him, this woman. Knew who Icarus was and probably also knew that I was running away from him. Suddenly, I felt so stupid. Such a fool.
