"There are many kinds in this world," he remarked. "Some worse than others." He wondered about the kind she'd faced, to be so casual about being in a room with one now. Daimon rolled his shoulders back, forcing out the cricks and kinks of the assault now that he was mobile again, most of the internal injuries healed, and the surface ones gone completely. The natural scowl settled back on his face, years of struggle deep in the harsh lines between his brows. Rage made a permanent home in his gaze, darkness in his smile. His personal Hell coiled around his heart, covered in thorns. Daimon had no interest in showing her the kind of demon he was. He set his towel by the sink and crossed the kitchen to pull down a couple glasses from the cabinet. After filling them with cold water, he handed her one and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Where in Eastern Europe?"