"Get out!" I scream, grabbing the shredded remains of her gown and throwing them at her. "Get out of my sight before I kill you!"
12
LEORA
Iwake to the color gray and the sound of my own shallow breathing.
I am not in the vast, velvet-draped bed where the world ended and began again. I am curled on the rug before the cold hearth in the guest room Imas locked me in weeks ago.
The memory of my exit is a blur of humiliation and terror. I remember the sound of his voice cracking as he screamedGet out. I remember clutching the shredded remains of the midnight-blue silk to my chest, stumbling out into the corridor, my bare feet slapping against the freezing stone as I fled the predator who had just come undone in my arms.
I sit up, the movement pulling at the deep ache in my muscles. My body feels heavy, rewritten. There are bruises blooming on my wrists where his fingers anchored me—dark violet marks that look like ink stains against my pale skin. My neck throbs with a dull, rhythmic sting where his teeth broke the surface.
I touch the mark.
He drank from me. Not blood, butfeeling.
I shiver, pulling the spare wool blanket tighter around my shoulders. I should be traumatized. I should be weeping. A Khuzuth Lord used me to silence his demons.
But I am not weeping.
I feel… settled. For the first time since I was dragged to the auction block, the frantic, buzzing anxiety in my chest is gone. The connection between us is still there—a dormant thread in the back of my mind—but it is quiet.
Because he is gone.
I know it with a certainty that is unrelated to logic. The estate feels empty. The heavy, pressurized atmosphere that usually surrounds House Imas has lifted, leaving behind a hollow vacuum.
I stand up. My legs are shaky, but they hold. I find a simple gray tunic in the wardrobe—servant’s clothes—and dress quickly, hiding the bruises, though I cannot hide the mark on my neck.
I walk to the door. I expect it to be locked. I expect to be a prisoner again.
The handle turns. The door swings open.
He didn't lock me in. He didn't care enough to secure the cage, or perhaps he was too broken to remember.
I step out into the corridor. The silence of the house is unnerving. It is the stunned quiet of a place that has weathered an earthquake and is waiting for the aftershocks.
I walk barefoot down the hall. A servant, a young elf with terrified eyes, rounds the corner carrying a basket of linens. She stops dead when she sees me. Her gaze drops to the mark on my neck, then snaps back to my face.
She does not order me back to my room. She flattens herself against the wall, bowing her head so low her forehead touches the stone.
She is afraid of me. Because I survived the Lord of Pain, and I am walking free.
I continue moving. I need to know where he went. I need to know what happens next.
I reach the landing of the main staircase. Below, in the foyer, Asema stands guard.
She is not wearing her helmet. Her face is a map of old violence, scarred and harsh, her eyes the color of flint. She is sharpening a dagger, the rhythmicshhhk-shhhkof the whetstone the only sound in the cavernous space.
She looks up as I descend. Her hands pause. I watch them instantly—the way her fingers tighten on the hilt. She is a coiled spring.
"You are awake," she says. Her voice is gravel, devoid of the mockery she used when I first arrived.
"Where is he?" I ask. My voice is raspy.
"Gone," Asema says. She slides the dagger into the sheath at her hip. "He took the black stallion. He rode for the city gates before the first bell."
"He left you behind."
