Darian stiffened. His wings twitched, his hands fisting against the table. The deep, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest was purely animal, purely warning.
Another female who had followed Merrick let out a sharp noise, unimpressed. “Must you?” she said to Merrick, who only grinned wider.
“What?” Merrick spread his hands in mock innocence. “He started it.”
Every muscle in Darian’s body tensed, his wings twitching as a growl built in his throat.
Merrick, of course, smiled. A lazy, taunting smirk, merely enjoying the show. Every inch of him screamedGo on, lose control.
He wanted this.
And Darian was seconds away from giving it to him. He shifted.A fraction of an inch.But I knew. He was about to launch himself at Merrick.
I didn’t hesitate. My hand found his arm, fingers wrapping around bunched muscle, warm and tense beneath my palm. I felt the fury trembling there. The heat of him, the sheer tensionvibrating beneath his skin, made my pulse spike, but I kept my voice steady.
“I know,”I said, cutting through the tension. “I understand.”
He didn’t look at me immediately. His focus locked on Merrick.
I gripped his arm tighter.
“I understand,” I said, louder now, enough to rise above the roar I could feel beneath his skin. “I know what he’s doing. And I know you want to tear him apart.”
His head snapped to me, chest heaving, teeth bared. For a moment, for a single, agonising heartbeat, I thought it wouldn’t be enough. That he was lost to that fire in his blood, the storm in his soul.
But he paused.
I didn’t flinch. “Don’t let him win.”
For a long, agonising moment, Darian didn’t move. His body vibrated with the tension of a beast ready torip the world apart.
Merrick watched, so gods-damned amused. But then, the tension eased. Darian’s wings lowered. The growl in his chest faded to a simmer instead of a full-blownthreat of violence. He was still tense. Still ready. But he wasn’t going to kill Merrick. For now.
The female leaned in and muttered in Merrick’s ear, who scoffed in response. I could only assume that she was Elowyn, Ashterion’s third in command. She certainly fit the description Fenric had provided.
She was crafted, not born. Every line of her face, every gleam of silver against her skin, was a study in lethal perfection. A beauty meant to destroy.
Despite her smaller stature, she stood tall, her posture regal and poised. And yet, there was a freedom in the way her long, silken hair spilled down her back in waves of nightshade.
Her chicory skin glowed with an otherworldly radiance, smooth and flawless. It was the kind of beauty that could freeze you in place or break a man with a single glance. She wore fitted leathers that clung to her body with an unforgiving elegance.
Her almond-shaped eyes, the colour of amethyst drowned in ink, locked onto mine with chilling intensity. There was no warmth in them, only a piercing calculation. One that saw straight through me, could rip apart everything I was with a single thought.
She noted Varyth’s grip around my hand, and something I couldn’t quite decipher flashed across her features.
Then the reality hit.
41
Four. A High Lord. His wife. His second and third in command. That was all they deemed necessary.
I fought to keep my face neutral, but I knew the weight of it, the sheer audacity of it.
Silence settled between the two courts, charged and suffocating.
Elowyn shifted, and the light caught the delicate silver chains that draped from her temple to her cheekbone.
“Varyth,” Ashterion drawled, pulling my focus back to him. “It has been so long.”
