Flat. Detached.
Like cruelty was another expectation he’d grown weary of fulfilling.
I stared at Ashterion, trying to read past the composed mask he wore. Was he lying? Playing some new game with me? The shadows in the room deepened as I studied him, attempting to shield him from what I might see.
“Less creative methods,” I repeated, not bothering to hide my disgust. “Is that what you call torture? A lack of creativity?”
“Call it what you will. The result is the same.”
“And what result is that?” I challenged, my hands gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Breaking us? Making us beg? Is that what you want?”
Ashterion’s lips curved. “What I want is irrelevant.”
“Bullshit.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “Or perhaps not. Does it matter?”
The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sculpted angles of his cheekbones, the subtle tension in his jaw.
I watched him, expressionless. “It matters, because you fixed my leg.”
57
Ashterion shifted, the worn leather of his chair creaking as he leaned back, shadows curling tighter around his boots.
He wanted to change the subject. Stars, he needed to.
Because the truth?
He didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense.
Why had he warned her? Why had he healed her gods-damned leg when he could have let it fester, forced her to crawl?
Why had he brought her here, into his chambers, into his space, into the small, hollowed-out piece of himself he hadn’t let anyone into in centuries?
His fingers flexed once, then stilled on the armrest. It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t guilt. It couldn’t be.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t.
He just didn’t want Xyliria to break her. That was all. Didn’t want her with access to that fire. To that power. That ancient, impossible magic Isara shouldn’t even possess.
It was a liability.
A threat.
He was protecting the balance. Protecting himself.
But still… his eyes drifted to her face. Pale from the strain, jaw tight with fury she refused to voice. And beneath all that anger—steel. She was here. Still intact. Somehow.
He should kill her.
Here. Now.
He could make it look like an accident. Tell Xyliria she’d lashed out, that he’d had no choice. That her death had been regrettable but necessary.
But his shadows stirred around him, slow and sinuous, coiling tighter. They knew.
