Ashterion let his eyes trail over me. Slow. Calculating.
But then, hesighed, as if I hadmissed the obvious.
“I assure you, Isara,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “I have no interest in a female who reeks of another High Lord.”
The implication coiled tight in my ribs.
“Just sit down.”
I didn’t bother wasting energy on a fight I wouldn’t win—not yet.
I moved toward thesmall loungepositioned opposite him, lowering myself onto the plush cushions.
“I must say, Isara,”Ashterion tapped a finger against the rim of his glass,“I expected more fight. I thought you’d have at least thrown something by now.”
I clenched my jaw. “Give me something heavy enough and I might.”
Ashterion’s lips curled into a smirk. “Spirited. Good. I’d hate for this arrangement to become dull.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of ways to entertain yourself at my expense.”Every syllable from my lips was honed to flay. “Tell me, do you always make a habit of collecting enemies and then playing host to them?”
His smirkwidened. “Only the interesting ones.”
Gods, I wanted to break something. Preferably his jaw.
Ashterion took an agonisingly slow sip of his wine, watching me. Every movement was deliberate, meant to test, to provoke.
I kept my expression blank, my fingers curled into my lap to hide the tension in them.
Smooth as ever,he plucked a second glassfrom the table beside him and, with a slow, lazy tilt of his wrist, poured me a drink.
“Go on.” He held it out toward me.
I didn’t take it.
“What, are you afraid I’ve poisoned it?”
I scoffed. “If you wanted me dead, I doubt you’d waste wine on it.”
Ashterion gave alow chuckle, pressing a hand to his chest. “Isara, please. Give me some credit. I’d at least be creative about it.”
Isnatchedthe glass from his hand, throwing him a withering glare.
He leaned back, the picture of smug ease, his smirk carved onto that scarred face.
“You know,” he said, swirling his wine again. “Even after your bath, you stink of him.”
I went rigid.
“Varyth,” he drawled, almost bitterly, as if saying the name tasted wrong. “It clings to you. Power, scent, theimprintof him.” Something close to a sneer crossed his face for a split second. “Did you give your companions a show in your cell? A last indulgence before your evening with me?”
My fingers tightened around the glass so hard I thought it might shatter.
He saw it. Laughed.
“You must’ve been quite the distraction. All bloodied and broken, wrapped in a High Lord’s scent.”
I snarled. “Funny to hear that from you, of all people.”
