"Maybe you should change."
"Why?"
"You look scary."
Brodie looked down at his clothes. "I'm wearing trousers and a cotton shirt. What's scary about that?"
"I don't think she's talking about your attire, Iain," said Logan, who was sitting on the couch, watching a soccer match on TV. "It's how you wear it, mate."
Brodie turned to me, his eyebrows knitted in question. "How do I wear it?"
He stood tall and straight. His muscles pushed against the fabric of his shirt. He was clean-shaven, and the slim scar on his face stood out. His mouth was set in a line, his usual expressionless expression. His arms rested loose at his sides, but he was ready to pounce, and he was dangerous. Everything about him spelled dangerous.
I grabbed my purse. I wagged my finger under his nose. "Just try and sm
