She doesn't falter when three of the most dangerous beings in the realm step from the shadows.
Kael. Dagan. Alaric.
My brothers.
My fellow Demon Lords.
But they, sure as fuck, are not prepared for her.
“Gods’ breath,” Alaric mutters under his breath, his gaze cutting between Delia and me. “Tell me this is a diplomatic complication and not a sign that you’ve gone and done what you swore never to do, Thorne.”
Kael, ever the stormy deep, says nothing.
His silence is louder than words. But I can feel him reading her.
Measuring. Calculating.
Dagan whistles low, hands on his hips, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and warning.
“You brought your new viyella to The Ember Vein?” he asks, voice rich with disbelief. “That’s bold. Even for you.”
He grins, sharp and dangerous.
But I know that grin. It’s not humor. It’s caution wrapped in mockery.
“She insisted,” I reply flatly.
There’s no point in explaining further.
Delia is beside me, quiet but not meek.
Her posture is straight, her shoulders squared, every inch the woman who once ran into burning buildings without a second thought.
Alaric barks a disbelieving laugh. “She insisted, and you listened?”
I ignore him.
Instead, I look at her.
Her dark hair is braided away from her face and secured at her nape with silken bands going down to the middle of her back.
Masha saw to that this morning with my approval—not that either female sought it. It amuses me how well Delia gets along with my steel-spined old nanny.
The cloak she wears is ember-colored and heavy with flame-thread, the same one I wrapped around her before we left Ashfell.
It marks her as under my protection.
Mine.
And beneath it, she wears white.
White tunic. White leggings. Practical. Light.
But more than that—a symbol of purity and truth in our lands. A color of significance. Of trust.
Of new beginnings.
She looks radiant. Untouchable. Untamed.
