This was it. The start of the charade. Xyliria had drawn the lines, lit the stage, and thrown him into the role. Her darling, cruel husband, sharpening his knives for the former mortal.
Break her,she’d said. As though it were a performance. As though it were entertainment.
And he knew what she expected. Bruises. Screams. Terror. Proof that he could be her good little puppet. Still broken enough to obey.
Ashterion swallowed bile, his shadows writhing in protest beneath his skin. He wanted to tear the whole room apart. Wanted to burn it down around them. But his hands were bound, always had been, in more ways than silk.
He needed a plan.
Fast.
Because Xyliria wouldn’t wait long for results. She never did. And if he didn’t deliver what she wanted—if he faltered, hesitated, protected instead of destroyed—then it wouldn’t be him in that chamber with Isara.
It would be Ryleth.
And she wouldn’t survive him.
He couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.
He had perhaps three days. Maybe less, knowing Xyliria’s impatience. Three days to figure out how to protect Isara while convincing his wife he was breaking her instead.
Ashterion forced himself to move.
Every muscle protested. He realised, faintly, that several of his ribs might be broken. Possibly a few other bones as well. Ryleth had demanded his company again last night. No doubt he would stay close by in the hope Xyliria would change her mind.
The wounds and bruises mottling his skin were healing, but it was almost pointless if Ryleth’s company was going to be frequent. If nothing else at least Isara’s night in his chambers would offer relief from other company.
He let the shadows waft from his skin. Let his breath steady, slow and cold, until he felt nothing but frost hollowing out his chest.
He walked down from the dais, step by deliberate step, the echo of his boots garish in the chamber’s vaulted hush.
His expression remained carved from obsidian.
Each stride brought him closer to her.Isara.She was held between two guards, defiant despite the fresh bruise blooming at her jaw.
His steps stopped before her.
He met her gaze with eyes like winter. Not a flicker of warmth. Not a hint of the dread roiling behind his sternum.
“Such a rare treat. I imagine she’ll be…entertaining.”
He felt more than saw the way Varyth strained against his chains again, the ancient rage in him thrumming through the room.
“I truly look forward to my time with our new pet,” he purred, infusing his voice with a dark hunger he didn’t feel.
He moved with deliberate grace, circling Isara like a wolf stalking wounded prey. The torchlight caught in her copper-red hair, illuminating the defiance in her face even as she trembled. The sight of her—bloodied but unbowed—stirred uncomfortably in his chest. He immediately crushed it.
“Such spirit.” He reached out to trace one finger along the curve of her jaw. “So much fire for such a small thing.”
She flinched from his touch, her remarkable jade eyes burning with a loathing so profound it should have seared his skin. Ashterion let his finger trail down her neck. A performance for Xyliria’s benefit. But even in the act, he avoided the bruises.
“All that fire.” He forced his lips to curve into a predatory smile. “I look forward to extinguishing it.”
Varyth’s snarls had stopped and were replaced by a low, steady growl that vibrated through the chamber. He tracked Ashterion’s every movement, cataloguing, memorising, promising retribution with such conviction that lesser fae would have trembled.
“Don’t,” Varyth snarled, the sound feral, unhinged.
“Shut up,” Isara snapped.
