Then, blunt as ever, she cut through the silence. “What the hell is your deal?”
He froze.
Only for a breath. Only long enough for it to register that she’d seen through the performance.
He let a smirk curl at his mouth, lazy and practiced. “You’ll have to be more specific little fireling. I have so many.”
But she stared at him as if she already knew the lie and was waiting for him to admit it.
“You made me eat,” she said, voice calm. “You told me a story about your sister. You won’t look at any of us when we’re being hurt.” Her tone hardened. “But you let your wife torture them anyway.”
Ashterion’s jaw twitched.
Isara leaned forward. “You’re the High Lord of this court. But you let her run it. You let her decide. Even when you don’t agree. Even when it clearly fucking guts you.” She tilted her head. “I don’t care if it gets me killed. What does she have on you?”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Inside, Ashterion cursed himself.
He never should have brought her here. Never should’ve let her stay in his chambers. She was too observant. Too willing to bite when she sensed weakness.
But fuck it.
Anything she learned wouldn’t matter in a few days.
He sighed, then shrugged and let his gaze fall to her throat.
“Not all collars are visible.” He smiled, but it wasn’t real. “Some are worn so long, you forget they’re there.”
“What does that mean?”
Ashterion’s laugh came low and sharp—void of real humour. He pushed off the desk, pacing a slow circle as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Just,” he said, “that if you ever marry someone in this realm, make sure you really read the fine print of your marriage contract.”
Isara blinked.
He let the words hang there. Let her chew on them. Let her see a sliver of the truth, the trap wrapped in silk and bound in gold. Because there were things written into his union with Xyliria that no amount of power could unwrite.
Ashterion turned away before she could speak again, grabbing a decanter from the sideboard and pouring himself a drink with too-steady hands. He downed the drink in a single swallow, the burn doing little to numb the restlessness prickling under his skin. He set the glass down with aclink, then turned toward her.
“You need to rest,” he said, tone clipped. “And this is the one night a week I get some damned peace. I’d prefer to enjoy it.”
Isara looked as though she was about to argue—jaw tight, eyes flashing. But then fatigue dragged the fight from her shoulders. She nodded once and moved silently toward the bed.
He watched her slip beneath the covers, each movement stiff, as though her body remembered the pain, even if the healing had dulled it. She settled on one side, back tense, spine straight.
He crossed the room, sliding into the opposite side of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She didn’t move, didn’t react to his presence.
He lay still, staring at the carved ceiling above.
Listening.
To the fire crackling low.
To her breathing.
Even. Controlled. Not asleep yet.
