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But it’s still there.

Clinging to me.

Seeping into me.

It’s in the creases of my knuckles, under my nails, inside the fine lines of my palms. Like it belongs there.

Like I belong to it.

I grip the corner of the marble basin, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The room is humid, thick with steam, the aroma of rose-scented oils curling around me like a noose.

The slaves had drawn the bath for me the moment I returned. Like they knew.

Like they could smell the blood before I even stepped inside.

I bite my lip, forcing my pulse to steady.

I still hear it, though.

The wet, choking gurgle.

The way his body went limp.

The dagger—my dagger—slid through his flesh like it was meant to.

I stare down at my hands again.

I flex my fingers.

I feel nothing. I have this empty vortex inside me.

This is what terrifies me the most.

How canI feel nothing for a life that I’ve taken?

I slip into the bath, my skin stinging at the heat.

I sink down, letting the water swallow me whole, the warmth licking over my thighs, my stomach, my still-tainted hands.

I lean my head on the tub’s edge, closing my eyes.

I should feel remorse. I should feel guilt.

But all I feel is the ghost of Zephiran voice.

See? You were always mine.

My nails sink into my thigh, pressing hard, fiercer, stronger.

I want to feel something else.

Anything will do.

The sound of footsteps snaps my eyes open.

I go rigid as the air shifts.

The hairs on my skin rise.