Page 6

6

VEYLAN

S he does not break.

She should have by now.

It has been four days since I set the rules.

She will eat only when I allow it.

She will sleep only when I say so.

She will sit in silence unless I demand otherwise.

She will understand that every aspect of her existence is mine to control.

Yet, as I watch her now—seated at the long ebony dining table across from me, wrists resting delicately in her lap, shoulders squared but not tense—I see no cracks.

The flickering glow of candelabras casts soft gold light over the polished wood, the gleam reflecting in her damned, defiant oceanic eyes. A rare color among humans, a stain of something unnatural. Something not right.

She stares at the untouched plate before her.

Roasted meat, steamed root vegetables, a goblet of wine dark enough to be mistaken for blood. A meal far too rich for a slave.

A meal she has not touched.

"Eat." My voice is soft but carries command, cutting through the vast silence of the dining hall like a blade.

Her fingers tighten just slightly against the fabric of her dress.

A small thing. A human thing.

I should not notice.

Still, she does not reach for the food.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my fingers over the carved armrests. "I do not waste resources, Sera."

Her name tastes dangerous on my tongue.

She lifts her gaze to mine then—slow, deliberate, like she is testing something.

A foolish thing to do.

She parts her lips as if to speak but stops. Not in hesitation. No, this is calculated.

She is waiting. Waiting for me to react.

Clever.

I drag my knuckles against the table, watching her in turn, measuring the quiet refusal in the set of her jaw. "You do not defy me openly, yet you do not obey either."

A slow blink. She says nothing.

This silent dance of defiance should amuse me.

Instead, it makes something dark coil low in my stomach.

I inhale carefully, tilting my head, studying her as I would an adversary on the battlefield.

"You think starving yourself earns you power?" My voice is silk over steel, quiet but unyielding.

Still, she does not move.

Heat flickers low in my spine, curling too close to irritation.

Or something else.

I shift forward suddenly, pressing my elbows against the polished surface of the table. "Do you know what happens to those who reject what is given to them, little one?"

The title is deliberate. A mockery of her silence.

Her throat bobs in the smallest swallow, and her fingers tremble.

I see it. I feel it.

Control.

I exhale slowly, relishing the way the tension in the room tightens, the way the candlelight dances in the silverware but does not soften the sharp edges of the moment.

"Eat," I say again.

A test.

The seconds stretch.

She moves.

A small, careful reach toward the goblet. The stem of it delicate between her fingers, her lips parting as she lifts the rim?—

She stops.

The goblet hovers just short of her mouth, a hair’s breadth from obedience.

She sets it back down.

My nails curl against the table, slow, measured.

The silence between us does not break in the hours that follow.

I do not move her from the dining hall.

I do not excuse her.

She sits there. Still, quiet, waiting.

I see it now—the faintest shift of her shoulders, the subtle tension in her fingers as she clenches them beneath the table.

She is tired. She is weakening.

I stand without a word, my chair scraping against the stone. Her gaze flicks up, just briefly, before dropping again.

Good.

"Leave it," I murmur, glancing at the untouched meal.

The servants stationed along the walls immediately lower their heads, stepping back, awaiting my next command.

I step past her, pausing just long enough to feel the distance between us crackle with something raw and unspoken.

Her breath is shallow now.

She is close.

Not broken. Not yet.

I will enjoy the moment she shatters.

I will savor putting her back together.