“Your hospitality is overwhelming,” she snapped, tone dry enough to draw blood. “Do all your prisoners get the royal treatment, or am I special?”
He didn’t look up from his book. “Only the ones who dump wine on me.”
She grabbed a piece of bread and tore into it. The violence of it was strangely charming. Her gaze flicked to the porcelain cup by his elbow.
“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Though I can’t promise it’s not poisoned.”
She snorted, mouth full. “If you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t waste good coffee on it.”
“You’re learning.”
She took the cup.
“You know,” she said, lifting her eyes to him. “For someone who’s supposed to be breaking me, you’re doing a piss-poor job.”
Ashterion turned another page, unhurried. “The day is young.”
She took another sip of the coffee, then set it down with deliberate care.
“When do I go back to my cell?”
Ashterion didn’t answer immediately. He finished his sip of coffee first, savouring the taste.
“Soon,” he said at last. “But first, we need to address those pesky wounds of yours.”
Her brow furrowed. “What wounds?”
“Exactly.”
Isara huffed, the sound laced with irritation and resignation. “Of course. Can’t have the High Lord’s pet project looking… untouched.”
“No,” he agreed smoothly. “That would raise questions neither of us wants answered.”
Her posture stiffened again, jaw ticking. He could almost feel the argument building.
He cut it off before she could speak.
“And when you return,” he said, voice cool and quiet, “you’ll need to lie.”
“Lie?”
Ashterion set his book down on the table beside him, folding one leg neatly over the other as he gave her his full attention. “To your friends. To your precious Varyth. They can’t know the truth about what happened last night.”
She scoffed. “They’d never?—”
“Sell you out?” he interrupted, his tone featherlight. “Of course not.”
He let the silence stretch before continuing, softer now, almost pitying. “But how certain are you, truly? That Varyth’s affection for you outweighs the opportunity to putmein harm’s way?”
That stopped her cold.
Ashterion watched the war behind her eyes. The flash of instinctive denial that didn’t quite make it to her lips. The split-second of doubt she tried to swallow.
“You can trust them, yes.” He smiled, small and razor-edged. “But can you predict them?”
Her fingers clenched around the porcelain cup.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “You’ll tell them what they expect to hear. That I hurt you. Broke you. Played the part I’m meant to play.” His eyes met hers, unblinking. “Because if you don’t… if they even suspect the truth… we both know how this ends.”
