Page 18

18

VEYLAN

T he assassin crumples.

His body shudders—a man who should be fighting, should be clawing for survival.

Instead, he whimpers.

His fingers twitch, his knees buckle, and his breath comes out in short, uneven gasps—like an animal that has been chained down by something invisible.

Something unnatural.

I don’t so much as look at him.

I stop caring about him.

She is standing there, her lips still parted, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven rhythm, shoulders drawn tight as if she fears what she just did.

As if she has never seen true power before.

As if she doesn’t realize it belongs to her.

I take a step forward.

Her gaze snaps to mine.

Our eyes lock, and I don’t look away. I want her to see my curiosity. My questions.

The flames cast long shadows against the walls, flickering over her pale skin, the blood drying in streaks down my own.

I should be looking at the bodies.

I should be considering who sent them.

I should be focusing on the threat.

Instead, I focus only on her.

On the way her hands tremble—not from fear of the assassins.

From herself.

From what she just did.

I tilt my chin.

"Do it again," I murmur.

The words slither into the space between us, something unspoken curling deep beneath them.

Her throat tightens.

"No."

A refusal.

Interesting.

I take another step.

The assassin—the one still trembling, still locked beneath her invisible chains—whimpers again.

I ignore him, stepping over his body.

Sera is still watching me.

Wide-eyed.

Conflicted.

A creature standing at the precipice of an abyss, staring into something she cannot name.

I finally understand the feeling of wanting to solve something that isn’t handed on a silver platter to you.

I exhale, slow and deliberate.

"Your voice did that," I murmur, gesturing lazily toward the assassin still shaking at my feet.

She swallows.

Says nothing.

I take another step.

She stiffens.

She is still too close to the wreckage, to the blood soaking into the floor, to the bodies surrounding us.

She should be looking at them.

She should be looking anywhere but at me.

But she isn’t.

She is only looking at me.

And I cannot stop looking at her.

The silence stretches.

Her gaze drops.

Not in submission but something else.

She exhales, sharp, like she hates what she is about to say.

"Sit down," she mutters, turning away from me, moving toward the small table near the corner of the chamber.

I arch a brow.

She doesn’t look back.

Instead, she grabs a cloth, a basin of water, a small vial of ointment.

She is tending to me.

As if I am the one who needs saving.

Amusing.

I sit.

I let her approach.

Let her kneel in front of me, her fingers hovering just above the wound in my side, her brows furrowing as she hesitates.

I smirk.

"You think I will strike you for touching me?"

Her lips press into a thin line.

Her hands do not lower.

I exhale, voice dropping lower.

"Or do you think touching me will feel like something worse?"

A sharp inhale.

She glares at me.

Without a word, she presses the cloth against my wound.

I feel it.

I feel her.

Her fingers brushing against my skin.

The way she lingers a second too long.

The way her pulse stutters against my arm.

The way her breath hitches when she realizes how close we are.

I watch her.

I watch the war flicker behind those oceanic blue eyes, the one she does not realize she has already lost.

She dabs the cloth along my wound, but she is the one who is unraveling.

For her. For me.

For whatever this is becoming.

But I will not stop her.