Cold war

I could hear the cogwheels in God of Rogues' mind turning. How much I knew? What were my goals? How could I be used? He still knew so little about the full extent of what was going on, but he had some suspicions I was curious about. I couldn't hear them in his head—they were so unformed, God of Rogues himself only knew that they existed.

But he was nothing but cautious with new opportunities. He wouldn't miss one because he thought that I still was likely to jump at him with the intent to bite. Unlike me, he didn't have a personal grudge with me. For God of Rogues, I was an interesting anomaly, dangerous, but one that could've been left alone. At least, before I ate his dagger—now he was quite irked under the calm facade.

I frowned at that. Then what he was doing with the rest of the Twelve Bastards when he attacked me? I could clearly remember him and his vicious daggers.