Riven saw the flicker—just a flash—of something behind Thane’s eyes. Pain? Fury? It was gone too fast to catch.
“I don’t need justification,” the Matriarch said. “I need results.” She stepped closer, almost nose to nose with her son. “The Hollow Hand resurfacing is not your concern. Your job is to cut. Neatly Quietly. Without bleeding all over the floor.”
Thane inclined his head just enough to be called a bow. “Understood.”
The Matriarch stepped down one more stair. “Clean yourself up. Report to me in ten minutes. And find me something concrete, before we lose more than pawns.”
She turned on her heel and swept away, her entourage following.
Asterian lingered a moment longer, smirking. “Chin up, brother. There’s always next time. Unless Mother decides you’re not worth sharpening anymore.” With that, he departed in the wake of his mother.
The air in the entryway felt too thick after that. Riven turned toward Thane, fury clawing at the back of his throat. “What the hell was that?”
Thane didn’t meet his gaze. “That was me keeping you from making it worse.”
“I wasn’t going to make it worse. I was defending you—”
“And I didn’t ask for that,” Thane said cruelly. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
Riven’s teeth ground together. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Thane stepped past him without another word, his boots loud against the polished floor. Riven watched him go, hands clenched at his sides, stomach twisted.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Why had he spoken up at all?
And why, even now, did it feel hollow to be left behind?
Chapter 17
The hour was late. The air in the Virellien estate had a certain heaviness to it—like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
Riven lay on the bed in the dark, one arm flung across his eyes. Sleep eluded him. His body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline from the mission, from the Matriarch’s fury, from Thane’s stillness. But more than that, he kept replaying the moment Thane told him to be silent. The snap of it. The sting. And the part of him that hated how much it had mattered.
A knock came.
Three sharp raps—deliberate, no hesitation.
He rose, padding barefoot across the cool stone floor. When he opened the door, Thane stood in the hallway. Still dressed in black from the mission, though his jacket was gone and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, forearms bare and corded with tension. His expression was unreadable.
Riven’s chest tightened. “Did you need something?”
Thane stepped forward, brushing past him. “I need to remind you.”
“Of what?”
The door clicked shut behind them. Thane turned, eyes dark and burning. “Whose mark you wear.”
Riven’s throat tightened. “I didn’t forget.”
“Didn’t you?” Thane moved closer, slow and certain. “You spoke for me. In front of her.”
Riven’s jaw clenched. “She was tearing into you. Your brother too.”
“She’s allowed. He’s irrelevant. You?” Thane stopped directly in front of him, their bodies close but not touching. “You’re mine. You don’t speak unless I ask it of you.”
It should have made Riven angry. Maybe it did. But more than that, it ignited something painful in his chest, humiliation and arousal knotted together. His heart pounded against his ribs, the taste of Thane’s presence thick in the air. Expensive cologne, sweat, smoke, danger.
