He pivots, impossibly fast, and closes the distance in a single, flowing step. My vision swims with pain and I hear a sharp, choked gasp, followed by another wet, final sound.
Gods.
When my eyes focus again, Raelle is limp in the dissolving silver chains, her head hanging at an impossible angle. The demon stands over her, one clawed hand dripping. Nyssa’s magic falters, and Raelle’s body crumples to the floor beside her cousin’s. Nyssa stands frozen, her arms still outstretched, her hands trembling. Her face is a canvas of shock, pale and drawn. Her gaze darts between the two bodies—her kin, her people—and then to the demon-thing that is Chad, and finally to me, lying broken on the floor. This wasn't a calculated act of war for her; it was purely reactionary. She saw Raelle about to kill Chad, kill me, and she acted. She felt guilt over what she did to Esme’s uncle, and she chose to help me.
And now she’s staring at the consequences, at more blood and ruin, with the horrified eyes of someone who never wanted to make a choice at all. Her breath hitches, a sound on the verge of a sob, and she looks like she’s going to be sick right here in this hallway.
She might be a dragon trained for combat, but her soul clearly isn’t built for war.
Silence descends, broken only by my ragged breathing. Two dead dragons. In less than a minute.
The demon turns, its crimson gaze finding me again. Hemoves toward me, and I instinctively brace, even as my brain screams this is still Chad, he won't hurt me.
He crouches beside me, those burning crimson eyes scanning my body with predatory focus. His hand, still wet with dragon blood, hovers over my ribs where Ariella's kick landed.
“Something told me to check on you,” he growls, his voice deeper, rougher—like gravel being crushed under granite. It's both Chad and not Chad, a hellish echo layered beneath his normal tone. “You’re hurt.”
I cough, tasting copper. “Brilliant observation.”
His head tilts, something human flickering in those inhuman eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. The heat coming off him isn’t the wild, flaring burn of a dragon—it feels heavier, closer, like it’s coiled instead of blazing. His fingers, tipped with those lethal claws, gently probe the side of my ribs. I flinch, a sharp hiss of pain escaping my lips. He immediately recoils. The crimson in his eyes dims for a second, a flicker of remorse crossing his demonic features.
“Sorry,” he rasps.
“It’s fine,” I wheeze. “Just… try not to rip my heart out. It seems to be your go-to move tonight.”
His gaze drops to the carnage on the floor, then back to me. A low growl rumbles in his chest. “I prefer to save that for third dates.”
I snort, an action that I immediately regret from the aching core of me.
“Can you… pass me my satchel,” I rasp. “I need a… tonic from there.”
He moves without a word to retrieve the satchel, then brings it back and kneels beside me. His movements are fluid as he unbuckles the strap, but his gaze is fixed on my face.
“Which one?” he asks.
I gesture weakly with my chin. “The mandrake one. Small blue vial. Easy to spot.”
As he plucks the correct vial from its sleeve, I try to push myself up on one elbow, but a fresh bolt of agony lances through my side, and I collapse back with a choked gasp.
“Better stay still,” he murmurs, his growl softened a fraction. “Or I’ll hold you down.”
I bite my lip as he shifts, moving closer until his rock-hard thigh is flush against my arm. One hand slides under my head, lifting me just enough, his blood-smeared claws tangling in my hair. The other brings the vial to my lips.
“Can you drink?” he asks, his voice a low vibration.
His crimson eyes hover inches above mine, unblinking, tracking every reaction as I try to swallow. The liquid burns its way down my throat, but it’s somehow less distracting than him.
His thumb brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.
“Better?” he asks.
“A bit…” I manage. “Thanks. Your bedside manner could use work tho?—”
Before I can sit up, a slow clap echoes from the far end of the corridor.
“Bravo,” a calm voice calls. “Truly a magnificent display of your… heritage, Mr. Valgrave.”
A man steps out of a shadow that shouldn’t be deep enough to hide a child, let alone a full-grown man. He is dressed in the immaculate dark-blue uniform of a Heathborne Chancellor, his gray hair perfectly coiffed, his face a bland mask of polite interest. But his eyes are old and sharp as shards of ice. Chancellor Rothmere.
