“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but carrying.
Mara didn’t look at him right away. She bent, picked up her apron from where it had fallen, and retied it with steady hands, as if she had just finished a routine task rather than dropped a man twice her size onto the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” the leader—now struggling to push himself up—demanded, his voice edged with something that hadn’t been there before.
Mara straightened, her expression unchanged. “Someone who told you to leave,” she said.
The man with the dog took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face more carefully now, something clicking into place behind his gaze.
“…No,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That can’t be right.”
Mara’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, and in that second something passed between them—recognition, maybe, or the echo of it.
“Don’t,” she said under her breath.
But it was too late.
“Rowan,” he said, louder now. “Rowan Hale.”
