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Alora’s mouth went dry. “Yes … sire.” The words were like ash in her mouth as he released her chin.

She now understood why he was coined the Savage Prince. The sheer sight of him, when he was enraged, could topple the indestructible Blackstone Mountains of Kadamar. She feared the day when every bit of his wrath would be poured out.

He turned to Jade. “Prepare your tent.Get out.” A low growl escaped his chest as he waved his hand in the air. It appeared as if he couldn’t care at all, motioning for her to leave.

Jade stormed out.

Garrik flattened his palms on the table, tension flexing his shoulders as he leaned heavily on his corded arms. Surrounded by silence again, nothing but her heartbeat thrumming as she watched him. Watched his head drop incredibly low, chin to his chest, almost as if he had forgotten that she was there. From the way he stood, he looked like a frontline soldier returned from merciless war. She saw the way his arms trembled. The way his breathing fell in uneven waves.

Then, his head lifted slowly. An unearthly strength rippled across his flesh and bore into the canvas above the table like it had that morning.

“I need a fucking drink,” Garrik murmured, his voice unlike it had been before, almost … pained, haunted. No trace of the High Prince who delivered punishments to his soldiers. That male that she had glimpsed in the tavern returned—for only a moment. Those powerful back muscles shifted as he pushed off, found a bottle, and poured himself two knuckles worth of amber liquid.

Garrik moved on heavy feet, dragging a chair across the pelts and settling it to face his own. “Sit.” That too sounded strange. Almost as if he was asking. Only she knew better; it wasn’t a suggestion.

Maybe it was his softened voice, or the drained, tormented dullness in his eyes, but whatever compelled her to do so, Alora willingly obliged him. The wooden chair creaked when her trembling knees bent.

Noticing with the first long sip of his drink, whatever Garrik had been warring inside settled as he wandered back to the table. There, he grabbed a thick bottle along with another glass.

She hadn’t expected it, but as he held out the crystal and nodded to it, this time, she didn’t refuse.

Garrik poured an amount worthy of her boiling nerves and reclined in his chair while she welcomed the burn over her quivering lips.

That critical gaze returned.

Alora sat uncomfortably, nervously tapping the glass with a fingernail. Watching as Garrik widened his knees and rested his arm across his thigh. She began to explore, observing the bandage on his hand that Jade’s assault caused, and the other with a strange scent like … burned flesh.

“How often have you trained with a sword?” Garrik took another sip.

Her eyes shifted to where Garrik had thrown his blade across the cot. Though she agreed to Garrik’s terms, she still didn’t want to be there. And, knowing enough, he wouldn’t grant her leave just yet.

Alora’s cheeks flushed scarlet. Despite everything, even the return of her dagger and powers, that dark part of her that remained distrusting, wickedly whispered to take that sword and plunge it into his neck.

Submittingagain… to someone—a male—to him.

It sickened her.

Calling him ‘sire’ was enough to feel her embers threatening to ignite in her palms, sending an ache to her twisted gut. He may have rescued her from the gamroara and even from Jade, but she vowed—voweda long time ago—no faerie, High Fae, or male alive would force her to submit.

Never again.

Alora half considered moving for the weapon. Like she had upon first meeting with him. This time, he was sitting—drinking. It was possible that he could be subdued in this state. With herpowers returned, they could assist her. What could shadows do to fire, anyway?

She stared into the liquid in her glass like it held the answers. Feeling that beautiful, safe net of power heating her palm.

Don’t, her mind coldly growled. Only the voice seemed … different.

She recognized it—mostly. But that voice had … had shifted to something dark.

Something like …

Sapphire eyes darted to him, wondering.

It … it sounded like …

Whatever was inside her glass was affecting her too quickly. The thought was outrageous. Or perhaps, he’d simply spoken but she was too distracted by scheming that she missed his mouth moving.

As if in response to her wondering, like smoke on a phantom wind, a gentle irritation, the one when she heard that voice, waved across the space inside her mind. Bouncing from the walls, rushing like the waves—searching, invading.