I let out a frustrated sound, more scoff than anything else. “Prick. You think I give a shit about what I smell like?”
Ashterion chuckled, the sound rich and velvety, utterly unbothered. “Oh, absolutely not,” he said easily. “But I do have standards.”
His fingers pointed toward an open frame in the wall. Beyond, I caught a glimpse of smooth, dark stone, candlelight glinting against polished metal.
A bathing chamber.
There was no door.
The breath left my lungs slow and controlled. “You expect me to just… do as you say?”
Ashterion tilted his head, his expression almost playful. “Unless you’d prefer to be assisted.” His voice was a lazy purr, but there was a challenge in his gaze, a test hidden beneath the veneer of amusement.
I clenched my jaw. “Go to hell.”
“You keep telling me that,” he mused. “And yet, here we are.”
I didn’t move. My body remained taut, ready, not that I had any real chance at escape.
With a slow shake of his head, he sighed. “Isara, let’s not waste time.” He stepped back, giving me an unspoken invitation—no, command. “Or are you waiting for my help?”
I stared at him, revulsion coiling through my veins. My hands trembled with rage, but I forced them still, fisting them against the floor, shoving down any sign of how deeply he affected me.
“Help?” I spat. “Is that what you call it? Forcing a captive to strip and bathe while you watch? Tell me, High Lord,” I snarled, injecting as much contempt into the title as possible, “do you practice being this repulsive, or does it come naturally?”
Ashterion’s brows lifted fractionally, the only indication that my words had landed at all.
“Such fire,” he said, his tone unchanged. “Even now.”
I laughed a harsh, brittle sound that scraped against my throat. “You think this is fire? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Ashterion’s lips curved into that infuriating smile again. “Is that a threat, Isara?”
“It’s a promise,” I hissed.
His jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath his skin. I braced for the strike, or that he might unleash that terrible shadow power once more.
Instead, he let out a tight breath. “Bathe. Now.”
I didn’t move.
Ashterion didn’t move.
I kept my face blank, my breathing steady, refusing to let anything slip.Refusing to let him see.
Because he couldn’t know.
Couldn’t know that the moment I tried to stand, my leg wouldgive out completely.
That the agony would rip through me andprovewhat I already feared—that I wasn’t healing properly. The collar’s suppression muted more than only my power.It was stripping me of even the smallest gift of fae resilience.The kind of healingthat should have at least begun setting the shattered bones in my leg.
Instead, the break was worse than it would have been if I were still human. The swelling was too severe. The bruising too deep.
I couldn’t risk standing.Couldn’t risk him seeing.
So, I stayed where I was, unmoving, letting himthinkit wasstubbornness.
Let him think I was being defiant, refusing to move because I wanted to fight him at every turn.
