Page 8

8

NARANUS

S omething is brewing in the stronghold.

I feel it in the walls, the heavy silence of my kin, the unseen glances pressing against my back as I stalk through the stone corridors. Whispers curl through the dark, hushed voices carrying across the cavernous halls, but none dare to meet my gaze as I pass.

They watched. They saw.

They felt the shift.

They will not speak it aloud, but the truth gnaws at them, the same way it gnaws at me.

She was there.

Watching.

The thought clenches in my chest like a vice. The purna’s presence was not accidental. She had followed, crept through my halls, pressed herself into the dark corners of my world, and she did not look away.

Even after I crushed my challenger into the dust.

Even after I made it clear that she is mine to ruin.

The truth slithers beneath my skin, uncomfortable, unwelcome. She should be afraid. She should have recoiled from the violence, from the raw display of dominance. Any sane creature would have.

Instead, she had held my gaze.

Unflinching.

Unbowed.

Now, the embers of something unpredictable smolder between us. There’s something about her that makes her undefinable.

I reach my chamber, shoving open the heavy doors, the smell of stone and old magic thick in the air. The flames in the brazier flicker as I enter, casting wild shadows against the walls. The heat of my earlier fight still lingers in my veins, coiled tight in my ribs, but it is not the battle that haunts me now.

It is her.

Her defiance.

Her patience.

The way she watches me, not with fear, but with purpose.

She is waiting.

For another chance to strike.

For another moment of weakness.

A sharp exhale forces its way through my chest, but the sensation that follows is worse. My hands twitch as the fractures along my arms pulse again, the glow seeping through my skin, aching from the inside out.

Unraveling. Splintering.

I drag a clawed hand through my hair, pacing. I should send for the healer. The cracks are deeper than before, spreading along my ribs, creeping toward my throat. The magic does not heal as it once did. It lingers, burns slow, like a beast gnawing its way through my bones.

It is getting worse.

And she saw.

I inhale sharply, pushing the thought aside. I need to focus. The dark elves are watching, the rogue gargoyle factions are waiting for the right moment to move against me, and my own kind doubts my strength. The purna’s presence here was never meant to be an offering. She is a blade sent to cut me down.

Yet, the longer she lingers, the less she resembles a weapon and the more she becomes a question.

A knock echoes against the chamber doors.

I turn, my wings shifting, irritation flickering at the edges of my fraying temper.

“Enter.”

The door creaks open, and she steps through.

Not a guard.

Not a messenger.

Her.

I go still.

She’s wearing leather and dark fabric that moves with her body, hugging the sharp lines of her frame, and I can’t help but run my eyes all over her. Her bare arms are lean with muscle, her shoulders set in that same defiant way, as if daring me to command her to kneel.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, neither of us willing to break it.

I exhale. “You should not be here.”

Eryss tilts her head. “No guards stopped me.”

I smirk. “That does not mean you are welcome.”

A flicker of amusement crosses her features. Or maybe it is something else. Something sharper.

“I watched you tonight.” Her voice is smooth, measured, but I hear the edge beneath it. “I watched as you nearly ripped your own man apart.”

I arch a brow. “Did it disappoint you?”

Her fingers flex at her sides, but she does not step back. “No.”

I chuckle, low and slow. “And why did you follow me, little bride? Hoping to see me bleed? Or did you come to finish what you started?”

Her expression does not change. “Would you let me?”

I move.

One second I am still, the next, I am on her, slamming her against the stone wall, my claws curling around her throat. Not tight enough to harm. Not tight enough to break.

Just enough to remind her what she stands against.

Her breath shudders out, but she does not struggle.

Instead, her eyes burn into mine, unafraid.

I should squeeze. I should crush.

But I don’t.

My grip shifts, dragging lower, along the side of her throat, her collarbone, pressing against the pulse thrumming beneath her skin.

“You think you understand me,” I murmur, voice rough with something I refuse to name. “But you don’t.”

Her fingers twitch at her sides. “And you think you understand me?”

A low, dangerous chuckle rumbles through my chest. “I understand enough.”

Her lips part, a slow inhale dragging between us. The smell of her fills my lungs, something wild beneath the surface, something restrained only because she forces it to be.

I lean in, my mouth a breath away from her ear.

“You hesitate, little bride,” I whisper. “And that will be your undoing.”

I release her.

Eryss remains pressed against the wall, but she does not look away.

Does not run.

I exhale, stepping back, my body still coiled with restless energy. “Go,” I command. “Before I decide whether you’re worth keeping alive.”

A muscle ticks in her jaw, but she listens.

She turns, striding toward the doors, but just before she crosses the threshold, she pauses.

Without looking back, she murmurs, “You hesitate too.”

I watch the empty space where she stood, my chest still tight, my skin still thrumming where her pulse had raced beneath my fingertips.

She is right. And that is the problem.