EMBER’S POV
I stroll down the line.
I make it slow. I clasp my hands behind my back and move down the gallery of oiled, waiting men like a general reviewing troops she finds personally disappointing.
And I feel Knox’s glare burning a hole clean through my spine the whole way, and I have never in my life enjoyed anything more.
I stop at the first. He’s enormous, a wall of muscle, arms like historical columns, and he flexes for me, helpful.
“Mm.” I tilt my head. I reach out and poke him, one finger into a bicep the approximate size of my skull, and he holds the flex, hopeful, quivering. “No. Too muscular. I want a man who can move, darling, not a man who can bench a piano. What would I even do with all this — send him to fetch things off high shelves? Next.”
Behind me, through the mask
