“Good answer. You’ll need all your wits about you.”
His fingers tightened once more on the small of Riven’s back before retreating, leaving behind a trail of lingering heat.
Riven fought to steady his racing heart.
He wasn’t a fool.
He was a survivor.
But gods help him, this Beast was something else entirely.
Chapter 3
He followed the Beast out of the chamber like a dog on an invisible leash.
The halls of House Virellien were all smooth marble and shadows. Light didn’t reach here so much as it waspermittedto glow in certain, careful places—hovering crystal sconces casting dim indigo and pearl light against black stone veined in silver. The silence was complete, heavy, like sound was afraid to speak without permission.
No windows. No sky.
Riven’s steps echoed behind the Beast’s, each one an effort in pride. He wouldn’t shuffle. Wouldn’t scurry. But gods, his back stillburned. The brand pulsed like a second heartbeat at the base of his spine, humming with magic. It hadn’t faded—it hadsettledbeneath his skin like it intended to stay.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did the Beast.
Not until they passed through an arched obsidian doorway and the heavy, runed door slid shut behind them with a final-soundingclang.
Then Riven realized two things at once: this was no guest wing.
And they were alone.
The chamber was expansive, darkly elegant. Polished floors, a wall of cascading water behind crystalline glass, a low-burninghearth, and a bed big enough to host a war council. The furniture was sleek, carved from blackheart wood and inlaid with iridescent shell. A wall of blades and weapons gleamed along the far side—swords, guns, curved knives that pulsed faintly with enchantment.
The Beast shrugged off his coat. Leather fell in a slow ripple to the floor.
Riven stood stiffly near the door. He should say something, demand answers, ask what the hell his life was now supposed tobe. But his mouth stayed closed.
Because the Beast had started to unbutton his shirt.
“You—” Riven’s voice cracked. “You going to fuck me the second we’re alone, then? Real subtle.”
Silver eyes flicked to him.
“No.”
He dropped the shirt next. His torso was a map of ink and old scars. Gods,he looked like a statue come to life. All lean, defined muscle, carved as if by war itself. Not bulky—there was too much grace in the way he moved for that—butsolid, power coiled under skin like something waiting to strike.
Runic tattoos traced sharp ribs and coiled over his pectorals like serpents of ink. A gnarled scar ran from his left pectoral down to his navel, pink and raised. A blade wound, deep and deliberate. A killing blow, had it hit closer to the heart.
Riven hated that he noticed. Hated that his gaze dragged lower, over the flat of that stomach, the faint trail of silver-blond hair leading down beneath the edge of his trousers.
He hated it.He hated him.
But his breath still hitched.
“No?” he echoed, sharper now. “Then what the fuck is this? Am I a new pet to show off to your monster friends? Or do you just like watching me squirm?”
Thane didn’t smile. But there was something colder—sharper—in the way he tilted his head.
