I descend, step by step, not rushing her. Letting the truth settle.
“You saymonster,” I murmur, “but your pupils dilate when I get close.”
“Go to hell.”
“Already been. It was quieter than you.”
She growls.Actually growls.
Delightful.
“You think this is a game?” she hisses.
I pause two steps from her. “No. This is ritual.”
She shivers, and not from cold.
“This is the part where you break me?” she mocks, but her voice wavers at the end.
“No,” I say. “This is the part where you understand you’ve already been chosen.”
Her breath comes fast now, chest heaving, but she holds her ground.
I walk past her to the decanter on the sideboard. Pour amber liquid into a carved crystal glass. The scent of it—aged tarran berry and smoked blackroot—fills the room.
I extend it to her.
She doesn’t take it.
So I nod. “Pour my drink.”
Her brows furrow. “What?”
“Pour. My. Drink.”
Her hands twitch. Defiance wars with curiosity. Then she snatches the decanter and refills the glass—shaking slightly.
I sip. Then sit in the massive chair near the hearth, unlatch the armored plates over my arms. I nod to her again.
“Brush my hair.”
“What are you—some kind of space emperor with a grooming kink?”
My lips twitch. “You’ll find out.”
She curses but obeys, fingers awkwardly sorting through the length of my white hair. At first she’s rough, irritated. But after a minute, her touch softens. Slows.
She forgets herself.
I don’t.
I let her work in silence, until the moment isjustright.
I glance up. “Nowkneel.”
The brush clatters to the floor.
She steps back like I slapped her. Her lip trembles, just slightly. Her hands curl, uncurl. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow fire.
