“Someone’s treating this like a prototype,” he muttered. “Testing it before deployment.”
Thane’s eyes landed on him for the first time since they’d entered the room.
Riven’s breath caught.
The look wasn’t heated. It wasn’t cruel. It was clinical, assessing. Like Thane was measuring him again, this time from the inside out.
“We believe a supplier by the name of Keiran Zay is behind the test sample,” the tech added, tapping keys until a grainy photo appeared on the screen—a wiry elf with pale eyes and a jagged tattoo snaking up his neck.
Riven frowned. “I know that face. He used to run with the Drowned Court, right?”
“Until they cut him loose,” Caerel confirmed. “He’s freelanced ever since. Most recently, according to whispers, with the Hollow Hand.”
That drew a pause.
“I thought the Hollow Hand were dead,” Riven said.
“So did we,” Thane answered quietly.
The room chilled around the edges. Riven felt the shift—Caerel’s slight stiffening, the silence from the tech, even the air seeming to thin out.
“It’s likely just rumor,” Caerel said after a beat, clearing his throat. “These sorts of rumors crop up every few years. Nevertheless, he’s supplying for someone.”
“I’ll pick up the trail,” Riven offered. “If Zay is still moving product, he’ll leave a scent.”
“You’ll do more than trail,” Thane said tersely. “We need a live source. You’ll bring him in.”
Riven nodded, grateful for something to do—something to pour this heat and ache and tension into—and grateful for the prospect of getting back outside the walls of the Virellien estate.
The debrief wrapped a moment later. Caerel rose first to “coordinate channels,” and the tech followed. Riven stood too, stiffly, limbs still not quite right. He shouldn’t still be hard. He shouldn’t still be thinking about it.
But when he glanced over, Thane was watching him again.
“Riven.”
His name in that voice dragged heat straight to his gut. He turned, every part of him bracing for more.
Thane didn’t move from his seat. His expression hadn’t changed. “Control yourself better next time.” The words were quiet. Not cruel, just succinct.
Riven’s pulse thundered. “You watched,” he said before he could stop himself.
“You wanted me to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It crackled.
Thane rose fluidly, rounding the table until he stood in front of Riven again. Close. Not as close as before, but close enough.
“You don’t get to pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” Thane said. “And I won’t pretend I’m done with you.”
Riven’s mouth went dry. His fists clenched at his sides.
Thane didn’t wait for a reply. He moved past without touching—without needing to—and left a trail of heat in his wake.
The door whispered shut behind him.
Riven didn’t move for a long moment. His heart pounded. His skin felt too tight.
He had a mission now. A name.
