"Please do not send me back."
The words come out raw, desperate, carrying all the terror he's trying so hard to contain. He can hear how pathetic he sounds, how broken, but pride is a luxury he can no longer afford.
Now Vaike does turn, his steel-gray eyes fixing on Evran with sharp attention that makes him feel every inch of their scrutiny. Those eyes seem to see straight through him, cataloging every weakness, every fear, every desperate hope he's trying to hide.
"What?" The single word carries surprise, perhaps even confusion, as if the warlord hadn't expected this response.
Evran stands up—can't sit still any longer under that penetrating stare—but doesn't dare move closer to the other man. He wraps his arms around himself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window.
"You owe me nothing," he says, voice pleading and rough with emotion. "I know that. I know my presence here is an insult, that my father's offer was offensive to you and your people. But I am begging you to not send me back. I will do anything you ask of me."
The words hang in the air between them, and Evran realizes how they must sound—like the desperate promises of someone with nothing left to lose, which is exactly what they are.
Something shifts in Vaike's expression—surprise giving way to what might be calculation. "You would rather remain here? Indentured to the Drakarri?"
"Yes." The word comes out fierce, desperate, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Yes, I would rather stay anywhere than go back to him."
Even as he says it, Evran knows how it sounds. What kind of father inspires such terror in his own son? What kind of household is so toxic that exile among strangers seems preferable to returning home? But he can't bring himself to care about how it reflects on his family's honor—not when his very survival is at stake.
Vaike's eyes narrow, and Evran can practically see the gears turning in the man's mind. "Explain."
The command is simple, direct, but it might as well be asking him to tear open his chest and display his heart. How can he explain the years of cold manipulation, the way his father treats his children like game pieces to be moved around a board for maximum political advantage? How can he make this mountain warrior understand the subtle cruelties of noble society, where a word can cut deeper than any blade?
Evran takes a shaking breath, knowing he's about to reveal more than he's ever told anyone. There's no way to explain himself without revealing the fact that this offering was not made in good faith—that it was his father's cruelty that brought Evran to their gates, not a gesture of goodwill but a sentence to be carried out.
And he knows that revelation isn't going to go over well. No warlord is going to want to hear that a Lord of the South considers them so barbaric and savage that he would send his own son there as punishment. The insult runs even deeper than the original offering of a person as tribute.
But what choice does he have? The truth is his only weapon now, pathetic as it might be.
"He sent me here as punishment," Evran admits, the words tumbling out now that he's started. They taste bitter on his tongue, each one a small betrayal of the family loyalty that was drilled into him from birth. "If you refuse his offering, if you send me back, he will not be merciful. He will see it as another way I have shamed him, another failure that requires correction."
"Punishment?" Vaike's tone is carefully neutral, but Evran can see something sharpening in his gaze like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "You were sent here as punishment?"
At Evran's nod of affirmation, the warlord's expression becomes harder, more dangerous. The temperature in the room seems to drop by several degrees, and Evran realizes he may have just made a terrible mistake. Of course the truth would anger this man—what leader wants to be told they're considered suitable as a punishment rather than an ally?
"Punishment for what?" Vaike asks, his voice quiet but carrying an undertone that makes Evran's blood run cold. The warlord's hands are clenched at his sides now, and Evran realizes he's already angered him beyond repair.
Evran swallows thickly, but the words won't come. He hadn't thought he would have to explain the specifics to these people, to this man, and now that the time has come he feels the words stick in his throat like stones. How can he admit to what happened with Lord Galen? How can he confess to the weakness that made him flee rather than submit to his father's will?
The silence stretches between them, growing more charged with each passing second. Evran can see fury building in Vaike's expression like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Finally, that fury breaks.
"Answer me!" Vaike snarls, and suddenly he's moving, crossing the distance between them in long, predatory strides.
Evran backs away instinctively, but he's not fast enough. Iron fingers fist in his shirt, hauling him forward with shocking strength. One moment he's standing by the chair, the next he's pressed close enough to smell leather and steel and something indefinably masculine that makes his head spin.
Vaike is nothing like the young men Evran has fought in the past—not the pampered lordlings who've challenged him to duels over imagined slights, or even his own brothers during their childhood scuffles. This man is a wall of muscle and controlled violence, his hold on Evran's shirt like a steel trap. He stands tall enough that Evran has to look up to meet his stormy eyes, and there's something in that gray gaze that speaks of battles won and enemies broken.
Evran flinches under that stare, every instinct screaming at him to submit, to show his throat like a beaten dog. The warlord's anger is a living thing in the space between them, hot and dangerous and barely contained.
"What offense did you commit that your father would send you to me like a dog on a leash?" Vaike demands, his voice low and deadly.
Evran realizes that in his shameful silence he's led the warlord to believe his offense to be much more dire than the truth. Perhaps Vaike believes Callum sent him a murderer, an arsonist, a rapist—when really he's sent the son who wouldn't follow orders. The expendable son who has spent his entire life bending to his father's will and finally could not bring himself to go any further without the risk of breaking entirely.
The grip on his shirt tightens, and Evran realizes he's running out of time. He has to say something, has to give this man some kind of answer before his anger explodes into real violence.
"You aren't the first man he's sent me to please," Evran manages to say, the words coming out in a rush.
