Page 15

15

SERA

T he fire flickers low, casting jagged shadows along the stone walls, their movements sharp and restless—just like him.

Veylan doesn’t sleep.

Or if he does, it’s never for long.

I lie on my side, back pressed against the silk sheets, watching the ceiling as the events of the night churn in my thoughts, clawing at my mind.

I should be dead.

That truth sinks into my bones, heavy and undeniable.

He should have punished me, torn me apart for making a fool of him in front of his own kind. A lesson in control. A reminder of what I am.

Instead, he spared me.

He touched me.

I can still feel the echo of his grip, the way his fingers curled around my chin, tilting my face toward his, studying me as if searching for something he couldn't name.

The way he washed me.

That should have felt like a mercy. But there was nothing merciful about it.

The cloth dragged over my skin, slow, unyielding, stripping away the blood that wasn’t mine, while his gaze lingered, watching every stroke as though claiming every inch of what he had chosen to keep.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn’t cruel, either.

It was something else.

Something worse.

My pulse stirs at the memory, something dark slithering through my veins.

Veylan moves across the room, a shadow among shadows. He removes his armor piece by piece, the leather straps coming undone, the obsidian plates discarded onto the floor in slow, deliberate motions. The only sound is the soft rustle of fabric, the subtle shift of his body.

I watch.

I have to.

He is a creature of unpredictability, a force that does not move unless he wills it, and I cannot afford to be caught unaware.

This is what survival means now.

Watching. Learning.

He notices.

Of course, he does.

Veylan turns, silver eyes gleaming through the dim glow of the embers, locking onto me like a predator catching movement in the dark.

I can’t look away.

Something flickers in his expression—not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

Something in between.

Something that makes my skin prickle.

"Still awake, little siren?" His voice is quiet, smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it.

I don’t answer.

The name drips from his tongue like a taunt, though I doubt he even realizes its accuracy.

Little siren.

Something deep inside me stirs.

His lips twitch at my silence, as if he enjoys it.

As if he enjoys the way I watch him now—not just out of fear, but out of something else.

Something that unsettles us both.

He does not press further.

Instead, he steps back, settles into the chair by the fire, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin.

He is still watching me.

I hate it.

I pretend to sleep.

Hours pass, the fire grows dull, the warmth of the hearth retreating into something colder.

Veylan does not move.

But I feel him.

Always.

I shift, pressing deeper into the sheets, forcing my breathing to slow, to even out.

Yet, the moment my mind drifts toward the haze of exhaustion, something happens.

Something I do not expect.

A weight.

A presence.

Heat, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my back.

He is holding me.

I stiffen, breath catching at the solid form wrapped around mine, the strength of his arm anchoring me against him.

What is he doing?

What does he think he’s doing?

The world narrows, my pulse slamming against my chest, the slow, steady inhale of his breath stirring against the back of my neck.

This is not a mistake.

He is not sleepwalking.

He is not unaware.

Veylan does not do anything by accident.

He is holding me.

Like a man keeping something from slipping through his grasp.

My stomach tightens into knots. My fingers curl into the sheets, and his arm a brand against my skin.

I need to get out of this.

I need to move.

I need to…

A glint of steel catches my eye.

The dagger.

I can barely breathe as I stare at the blade resting against the nightstand, within reach.

My pulse thunders as my fingers slide toward it, slow, careful, waiting for any sign of movement, any indication that he has caught on to what I am about to do.

Nothing.

His breathing is steady.

Unbothered.

My hand closes around the hilt.

Cold steel, sharp and waiting.

My grip is steady as I lift it—as I turn it toward him.

The blade hovers over his throat, the dim glow of the dying fire casting a gleam across his obsidian skin.

One slice.

That is all it would take.

One slice.

I have to do this.

I have to.

And yet my hand shakes.

The blade trembles, refusing to obey, my grip faltering as if even in his unconsciousness, he knows.

He knows.

My throat tightens.

This is my chance.

My only chance.

But I can’t.

I can’t do it.

The realization hits me like a knife to the chest, sinking deep, lodging into something I don’t want to name.

I exhale sharply, a sound of frustration and something else.

Before I can second-guess myself, before I can force myself to finish what I started?—

I throw the dagger.

It clatters to the stone floor with a sharp metallic ring, the sound shattering the silence like a struck bell.

Veylan stirs.

I don’t have the luxury to think before his arm tightens, his grip securing before I can move away.

Before I can escape.

My breath lodges in my throat as his silver eyes crack open—unfocused, drowsy, but still sharp.

Still dangerous.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just lies there, his grip firm, his gaze searching.

As if he already knows what I almost did.

As if he was waiting for it.

The silence stretches, thick, suffocating.

He exhales, slow and deep.

His arm loosens and he lets me go.

I don’t move until his breathing evens out once more, his body relaxing against the sheets.

Not until I am sure he has slipped back into unconsciousness.

Only then do I shift, pressing my trembling fingers to my lips, something foreign and unbearable curling in my stomach.