Page 33

33

SERA

T he silence in his chambers is unbearable.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should have left him alone, let him stew in whatever storm is raging in that twisted, unreadable mind of his.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

He’s been avoiding me, and I felt it.

It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

I find him at the table, his back to me, fingers wrapped too tightly around the stem of a goblet.

He hasn’t acknowledged me.

Good.

Fine.

I step closer, my voice colder than I thought it would be.

"What am I to you?"

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch.

The firelight casts his sharp profile in hues of gold and shadow.

Still, he says nothing.

Something inside me snaps.

I move before I can think, slamming my hand onto the table. The sound cracks through the room.

"You think ignoring me will make it go away?"

Slowly, finally, he looks up.

His silver eyes are unreadable. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

He stands, towering, but I don’t back down.

His voice is slow, deliberate. "You are speaking out of turn, little siren."

The way he says it—**the warning beneath it—**should send ice down my spine.

It doesn’t.

I step closer, defiance burning through my limbs. "Then make me stop."

His stare sharpens.

His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s warring between grabbing me or breaking me.

The tension thickens, wrapping around my throat, pressing down like a weight I don’t want to shake off.

I shove him.

It’s foolish.

I do it anyway.

He barely moves, but he notices.

His jaw flexes. His shoulders go taut.

"That’s all?" I push him again. Harder. "You’re the great Dreadlord, aren’t you? Should I start trembling?"

It is reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.

But he’s been avoiding me.

And I need him to stop and look at me clearly. I shouldn’t even be asking this but everything that’s happening around me—the rumors, the murmurs and the life I’ve taken is taking a toll on me.

A flicker of something dark flashes in his gaze.

Something I should be afraid of.

But I’m not.

He moves.

Fast.

His fingers wrap around my wrist before I can react. He jerks me forward—too close, too fast.

A gasp barely escapes before I collide against his chest.

"You are pushing me," he murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "Do you want to see what happens when I break?"

His fingers tighten. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding.

I should back down.

Instead, I strike first.

My free hand slams against his ribs.

It’s not a soft, weak thing—it’s a real hit. A real challenge. A real fight.

He exhales, low and sharp.

And he grins.

He fucking grins.

Something dangerous flickers in his silver eyes.

His grip shifts, and before I can react, he pulls—too fast, too hard.

I twist. My back slams against the table, my breath knocked out in an instant.

But I don’t stop.

I lift my knee—aiming for his side.

He blocks it.

Our limbs tangle.

The table shudders beneath me.

We’re not fighting like before—this isn’t training, not a game.

It’s war.

Every movement is a battle. Every breath is a challenge.

And neither of us are willing to lose.

I land a hit. He lands one back.

I snarl. He laughs.

The bastard is enjoying this.

I’m weaker than him, but I’ll make it hurt. I don’t know how to kill a man, but I can be vicious.

Killing someone changed me from inside out.

I try to shove him off. He doesn’t let me.

He leans in, breath warm against my cheek. "Not bad, little siren."

The words scrape against something deep inside me.

His body is pressed too close, too solid, too much.

I try to move—he doesn’t let me.

His fingers curl around my wrist again, pinning it to the wood.

Our chests rise and fall in sync, breathing ragged, heated.

I should feel trapped.

I should feel afraid.

Instead—I feel alive.

His silver eyes flicker, roaming over my face, lingering too long on my lips.

He should end this.

But he doesn’t.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice low, taunting.

I stare at him.

The challenge is clear. If I tell him to stop, he will.

I can’t.

My pulse pounds against my skin, heat spreading through my limbs like wildfire.

His gaze darkens. His grip flexes—not cruel, not soft.

Just there.

Holding me.

And I realize something terrifying.

I wanted this fight.

I wanted to push him.

To see if he would finally break.

Instead, I’m the one breaking.

I dislike that he lets go first.

That when he finally steps back, dragging in a slow breath, I feel the absence.

His expression hardens. His mask slams back into place.

"Do not challenge me again."

He turns. Leaves me alone.

My chest heaves. My skin still burns.

There is no line between us anymore.

There never was.