Riven didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything.
Thane exhaled slowly, the sound edged with satisfaction. “We’re going to have to do something about that mouth once this is over.”
“Promises, promises,” Riven muttered under his breath.
Another beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with heat.
Riven’s body ached—not just from the wound or the long day, but from the tension coiling low in his gut. Thane always did this to him. Always pushed him to the edge and left him there, panting and furious and still wanting more.
But there was something else behind it tonight. Something less playful.
Beneath the teasing, beneath the lazy drawl and the cocky amusement in Thane’s tone, Riven saw the tightness in his shoulders. The faint twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers curled just a little too tightly around the steering wheel.
Thane was worried.
The mural had changed something. Riven didn’t know what exactly, not yet—but whatever that place was, whatever it meant, it had hit Thane hard.
So Riven stayed quiet. Let the memory of Thane’s mouth on his, the scrape of teeth, the bruising grip on his hips be enough to carry him through the drive. Let it keep him from looking too long at the worry furrowing Thane’s brow, or the darkness in his eyes.
He’d follow him into hell.
But gods, he wanted to be kissed first.
The silence stretched again, long enough to make Riven feel the weight of it in his chest. Thane had closed off. That quicksilver mouth, always ready with a taunt or a threat, had gone still.
Riven knew the smart thing would be to stay quiet. Let the silence settle. Let whatever thoughts were spinning in Thane’s mind stay locked behind those hard eyes.
But he couldn’t.
So, quietly, almost too quietly, he said, “What was he like? Your father.”
Thane’s gaze didn’t waver from the road. For a moment, Riven thought maybe he hadn’t heard. Or maybe he was just ignoring him. But something in Thane’s posture shifted. A small, careful exhale left him, and then—
“He was kind,” Thane said, voice so soft Riven almost didn’t believe it came from him. “At least to me.”
Riven didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.
“He was the real parent,” Thane continued. “My mother had to be the Matriarch. That came first. The House always comes first. But he…made space for me to just be a boy sometimes. Just Thane. Not the heir. Not the weapon.”
Riven watched him from the corner of his eye, but Thane wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the road, but Riven could see the memories moving behind his eyes, sharp-edged.
“He used to sneak me out at night to the private training rooms. Taught me how to hold a blade before I was tall enough to wield it properly. He never went easy on me, not once. He said it was because he wanted me to live. And because he knew someday, I’d have to be the Knife.”
There was a smile in his voice, but it was bitter at the edges.
“He was there when I got my first kill. I was fourteen. It was a traitor in the House—a man who’d sold information to the Hollow Hand. I remember my father gripping my shoulder afterward. Hard. Not proud. Just…steady. Like he was reminding me it was real. That I had chosen the blade and now I had to carry it.”
Riven’s stomach twisted, but he said nothing. He could picture it—young Thane, eyes too serious for his age, drenched in blood and responsibility.
“He was also with me when I got my first tattoo,” Thane added after a pause, his tone flickering lighter for a heartbeat. “Held my arm the whole time. I think he was proud. That I’d chosen a mark as mine.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Riven’s lips. “Which one?”
Thane gave a soft snort. “The hound on my ribs. Not many people see it.”
“I’ve seen it,” Riven said, voice low.
“I know,” Thane murmured, and for a moment the silence felt different. Not heavy. Justfull.
