I held my ground, though every nerve lit up in warning. “I think I understand more than you want me to.”
“No, Isara. You understand nothing. Do you truly think my… bargains are some grand secret?”
Ashterion turned away abruptly, moving to the window where moonlight spilled across his face, highlighting the angles of his features. He looked... tired. The shadows retreated, coiling back to him.
“You believe you understand the intricacies of court politics because you’ve warmed a High Lord’s bed?” He smirked. “How charmingly naive.”
“I’m not naive,” I snapped, heat rising to my face. “And don’t pretend you know anything about me and Varyth.”
Ashterion turned from the window, something dark and unreadable passing across his features. “Oh, but I do know. Iknow exactly what it’s like to have a High Lord claim you.” His voice was velvet and cruelty. “Tell me, does Varyth make you beg for it? Or does he take what he wants, like he takes everything else?”
My breath caught, rage surging through me so violently my vision blurred at the edges. And I snapped.
I surged forward. And dumped my glass of wine over his head.
Ashterion went rigid, the wine trickling through his dark hair, dripping down the sharp cut of his jaw, soaking into his pristine tunic.
For a long, stretched moment, silence filled the space between us, the fire crackling in the background.
Then, with a measured exhale, Ashterion lifted a hand and flicked a single droplet from his wrist.
“Feel better?”
My chest heaved with ragged breaths, my hand clenched tight around the now empty glass.
Wine dripped from his chin, pooling at the hollow of his throat.
Ashterion didn’t wipe it away.
Instead, he slowly lifted a hand and pushed his wine-soaked hair back from his face. “You know.” His tongue darted out to catch a droplet of wine that had rolled to his lips. “Most people who throw drinks at me don’t live long enough to see what happens next.”
“Go ahead,” I pressed the words past the tightness in my throat. “Kill me.”
Ashterion’s lips curved, though the motion never quite reached his eyes. “Tempting.” His gaze dragged over me, as though he were truly considering the idea. But instead, he stepped back. “But first, I need to change.”
With that, he turned, striding toward the dresser with that same casual grace, as if nothing had happened.
I stood frozen, the anger thrumming through my limbs, my breath shallow. He towelled off his hair briskly, then moved to a dresser.
He unhooked the first button of his tunic. Then another. The fabric, soaked through with deep red, peeled away from his skin, sticking in places before slipping off his shoulders.
I forced myself to keep my expression blank, to not react as I saw them.
The scars.
Brutal, jagged wounds marred his skin. Some were older, faded to silvered lines that carved across his ribs, his sides, his back. Others were raw, healing, red and angry against his otherwise smooth flesh. And some… some looked fresh, perhaps only hours old.
Deep gashes, the kind that could only be made with cruelty, with brutality.
The sight snatched the air from my lungs, the warmth from my chest.
This wasn’t the body of an untouchable, all-powerful High Lord. This wasn’t the perfection of someone who commanded fear and respect without consequence.
And I hated—hated—that for the barest fraction of a second, I almost pitied him.
Ashterion turned, catching me watching in the mirror across the room. He made no move to cover himself, no attempt to hide the map of violence etched into his skin.
“Who did that to you?”
