He was too relaxed. So much for the famed Roman chivalry, but Toria gave him credit for not being stupid enough to bow and take his eyes off her. “Scoping out possible supply routes,” Octavian said. “Or escape routes.”
“And why would you need either?” This veneer of civility was wearing thin. Toria searched for signs of rank on his uniform, but nothing stood out from his camouflage. Asaron’s lessons on foreign rank had been a long time ago. But Octavian looked to be in his mid-forties, much too old for a simple recruit.
“One never knows what one will need,” Octavian said.
No rank, too old, and way too comfortable in her gun sight. Plus the hints of long-healed scarring creeping up the side of his neck above his gear. So. Special ops, then, or something close to it. The first shiver of r
