Page 14

14

VEYLAN

T he murmur of voices grates against my patience.

Soft whispers, muffled laughter, the rustle of silken robes shifting as the nobles lean in—watching, dissecting, waiting for my next move.

They are amused.

Not by the corpse cooling at their feet, not by the red smeared across polished marble, not by the fact that I just severed a noble’s throat without a second thought—but by what it means.

By what she means.

Sera.

My hold tightens around the goblet in my grasp. I should crush it.

Instead, I lift it to my lips and drink.

She is still beside me, frozen in place, the blood splattered across her cheek a stark contrast against that delicate, pale skin.

She does not tremble.

Does not shrink away.

I should be pleased with that.

Instead, something carves deep, festering beneath my gut as I catch the way she stares at the body, at the way Rhyzal lies slumped, his silver eyes dull, his mouth open in an unspoken question that will never be answered.

She doesn’t look at me.

But I feel her. Every breath, every tense muscle, every thought she does not dare voice.

That is why the laughter around the hall grates worse than usual.

A few nobles, emboldened by the carnage, lift their goblets in a mock toast. "Our Dreadlord does not share his toys, it seems."

Someone chuckles. "If he is keeping this one, perhaps she is worth more than we thought."

Another leans forward, watching Sera like a puzzle that begs to be solved. "Or perhaps she is simply softening him."

The room erupts in scattered amusement.

They do not fear me enough.

I let the goblet clink softly against the table, my fingers slow, deliberate as I set it down.

The laughter stops.

Good.

My father is silent.

He does not laugh.

Does not sip from his goblet.

He simply watches, lounging against his throne-like seat, his silver gaze a blade honed to slice.

I do not acknowledge him.

Instead, I turn and I finally look at her.

Sera’s breathing is measured, but too careful, her shoulders locked, her throat tight. She is trying to stay still. Trying to fade into the background the way slaves always do when they think they are at risk of being noticed.

She fails.

She will always fail.

Not when she is like this.

Not when she is stained with his blood.

Something curdles deep inside me.

I do not touch her gently.

My hand snaps up, seizing her chin, forcing her to face me.

Her lips part, but she does not speak.

Her pulse pounds beneath my thumb.

The stench of her fear—light, subtle, not quite terror but not quite calm—fills the distance between us.

I do not let go.

My grip is firm, tilting her face just enough for me to see it properly.

The way the blood clings to her cheek.

The way it smears down her throat, a single red streak carved over porcelain skin.

I should be unaffected.

It is only blood.

I have seen it on her before.

But not like this.

Not when it does not belong to her.

Not when it belongs to him.

Something twists inside me.

"Did he touch you?" My voice is soft, but too soft. The kind of softness that means something is about to break.

She blinks up at me, stunned by the question.

Shakes her head, lips parting, but no words come.

Lying? Or truth?

I cannot tell.

I have spent my life carving screams from human throats, peeling their secrets from their trembling bodies like parchment stripped from bone.

Yet, I cannot tell if she is lying.

That realization should irritate me.

Instead, it intrigues me.

I release her with a sharp flick of my wrist.

I should punish her.

Should strip her of this ridiculous illusion of safety.

Should remind her what she is.

Instead, I stand.

And when I grip her wrist, dragging her behind me, I do not break the contact.

I do not spare the nobles another glance.

Not even when I feel their hungry eyes trailing after us, their amusement curdling into something else.

Not even when I feel my father’s gaze, razor-sharp and knowing, pressing against my back.

I do not look back.

The corridors stretch endlessly, twisting deeper into the fortress.

Our footsteps echo, filling the silence, a sound that is too loud, too present.

Sera does not speak.

But I feel her pulse, rapid beneath my fingers.

She does not fight.

She does not resist.

But she does not submit either.

Not fully.

That should amuse me.

Instead, it makes me drag her faster.

We reach my chambers, and I shove the doors open.

The moment I release her, she stumbles back, pressing herself against the stone wall as if putting as much distance between us would make a difference.

It won’t.

I step toward her.

She does not shrink away.

Of course she doesn’t.

She watches me, chest rising and falling, eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a tight line.

She is still covered in his blood.

The sight unnerves me.

Not because she is stained.

But because I do not want her to be stained with anyone else’s blood but mine.

A mistake. Again.

I exhale slowly.

I grab the basin of water from the side table, dampen a cloth, and approach her.

She stiffens.

Good.

I reach for her, and when she does not move, I take that as permission.

The cloth presses against her skin.

The red smears.

My fingers follow the motion, slow, precise, dragging the stain away inch by inch.

A strange kind of silence fills the distance between us.

Her breath stutters.

Not fear.

Something she does not understand yet.

I do.

That should make me stop.

It doesn’t.

Instead, my grip tightens—just enough for her to feel it.

Just enough for her to understand.

Her lashes lower and I drag the cloth lower, along the column of her throat.

Slow. Unrelenting.

She lets me.

She does not flinch.

Does not speak and only watches.

I let the silence stretch.

I drop the cloth, stepping back.

She sways—just slightly.

Then catches herself.

A slow exhale leaves me.

I tilt my head and I do not smirk.

Silence spread in the room because I don’t even have the words to describe what’s going on between us.