My fingers clenched in the fabric of his tunic. I let myself sink into him. I couldn’t stop myself. Not when the memory of Ashterion slithered under my skin. A shudder ran through me, and Varyth’s arms tightened. His breath was steady against the top of my head, his heartbeat a strong, rhythmic presence beneath my cheek.
“I hate him.” The words were raw, unravelling at the edges. “I hate the way he looks at me. Like I’m—like heowns me.”
Varyth’s hold became almost crushing. “He does not own you.”
I clenched my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against his shoulder. I wanted to believe that. Ineededto believe that. But the weight of Ashterion’s words burrowed in my bones, in the promise that hewouldbring me back.
That he wanted to.
I curled closer into Varyth, trying to banish the memory of Ashterion’s gaze.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because Ashterion wasn’t just playing with my pain. He was studying me. And I had no idea what he would do once he figured out what he wanted.
51
The silk ropes burned Ashterion’s wrists, the cruel twist of their restraints digging deeper with every breath. His body lay stretched across the bed, his muscles aching from both the physical strain and the tightness of the bindings.
His gaze flicked toward Xyliria, standing at the edge of the room, the glint of her eyes catching the dim light.
Ryleth was closer. Too close. Ashterion could feel the press of his presence in the air, thick and suffocating.
The scent of bergamot and blood clung to Ryleth like a second skin. He moved with predatory grace, circling the bed with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world to inflict his particular brand of torment.
“It’s been too long, little sovereign,” Ryleth purred. The name made Ashterion’s skin crawl. “I’ve missed our... sessions.”
Ashterion kept his expression blank, his breathing measured. He had learned long ago that reactions only fed Ryleth’s appetite for cruelty. The male thrived on fear, on the subtle tells that betrayed pain or discomfort.
“Nothing to say?” Ryleth’s fingers trailed along Ashterion’s bare chest, nails scraping hard enough to leave thin red lines in their wake.
From across the room, Xyliria laughed, the sound crystalline. “He’s been sulking ever since our little meeting with Varyth and his pet,” she said, settling into an ornate chair. “Perhaps you can remind him of his place, Ryleth.”
Ryleth’s smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp in the candlelight. “Oh, I intend to.” His hand moved lower, fingers digging into the tender flesh below Ashterion’s ribs. “Xyliria tells me you’ve been... questioning her methods.”
Ashterion’s jaw tightened fractionally—the only outward sign he allowed himself. “I question nothing.”
Ryleth’s fingers pressed deeper, targeting old wounds.
“Then why did you stop the little display with the human?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer, his breath hot against Ashterion’s ear. “Why did you sayenoughwhen no one asked for your opinion?”
Ashterion kept his breathing steady, even as Ryleth’s hand moved to his throat, applying just enough pressure to remind him how easily his windpipe could be crushed. “The girl was about to pass out. Dead captives serve no purpose.”
Ryleth’s breath was hot against Ashterion’s ear. “Always so practical.” His fingers traced the line of Ashterion’s jaw, forcing his face to turn. “Or perhaps there’s another reason?”
Ashterion met his gaze with practiced indifference. “There is no other reason.”
Ryleth’s mouth curved into a cruel smile. Without warning, his teeth sank into the tender skin along Ashterion’s jaw, just below his ear. Not deep enough to tear, but hard enough to leave marks.
Ashterion’s breath hitched involuntarily, his body going rigid against the restraints.
“There we are,” Ryleth murmured against his skin. “Let’s try again.”
Xyliria’s silk skirts rustled as she approached. “He’s been distracted lately. Distant.” Her hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Ashterion’s face with mock tenderness. “Ever since the human displayed that shadow fire.”
“Shadow fire,” Ryleth echoed, his tone contemplative. “How fascinating. I thought that magic died centuries ago.”
“As did we all.” Xyliria’s voice held an edge of irritation.
