Dante's jaw clenched. "You find my throne room interesting?"
"The sight lines are excellent." She gestured from the throne to the doorways, chains clinking. "You can see every entrance from that seat, and anyone approaching has to cross significant ground to reach you. Good defensive positioning." Her gaze swept the twelve-foot boundary around his throne. "Though I notice everyone stays well back from the center. Is that by choice, or by design?"
No one had spoken to him like this in centuries. As if his throneroom were a fortress to solve rather than a monument to everything he represented.
His shadows wound tighter, fighting his control. He forced them still through sheer will, refusing to let them betray his reaction.
Dante walked toward the throne. Power rolled off him in waves, dropping the temperature. Frost spread across the floor.
She straightened her shoulders and walked deeper inside.
Such a waste. She'd get herself killed within the hour.
He reached his throne and turned to face her. The boundary stretched between them. From this distance, he could study her without the complications of proximity.
Smaller than she'd seemed at the ritual. Average height, maybe, but the ceremonial chains looked heavy against her lean frame. She carried them without apparent discomfort. Chestnut hair caught the blue flames, turning auburn where light touched it. Those sharp eyes continued their sweep. Green, he noted. Looking at the architecture, the carved names, the way shadows pooled in corners.
Callused hands, visible even from this distance. Working hands.
A strand of hair had come loose, falling against her throat. It moved slightly with her breathing.
He looked away.
"Well?" He settled into his throne. "Are you going to stand there all evening, or do you have something to say?"
She met his gaze directly.
One shoulder lifted in a shrug that sent chains clinking. "Nice place. Bit excessive on the death imagery, but I suppose that's the point."
A spirit lost its form entirely, dissipating before frantically reforming. A warrior's sword rattled in its sheath.
Dante leaned forward. The temperature plummeted. Frost spread across the armrests beneath his gloved hands.
"Excessive."
The word came out flat—a warning most mortals would have recognized.
She didn't even blink.
"Well, yes." She gestured at the walls, the throne, the floor. "It'svery 'look upon my works and despair.' Effective, but it does rather announce itself, doesn't it?"
She was critiquing his interior design. Standing in his throne room, surrounded by the bound souls of those who'd displeased him, and offering decorating advice.
His remaining servants pressed against the walls.
Dante straightened in his throne. Ice spread rapidly outward. Several servants fled, abandoning their posts rather than witnessing what came next.
Her foot moved forward. One step closer to the boundary no one else dared cross, chains clinking.
She was walking toward him while ice formed in the air and shadows writhed across the floor.
Careful, thief.That curiosity of hers would get her killed faster than fear ever could.
His shadows surged toward her, wrapping around her shoulders, her arms, touching her with an eagerness that had nothing to do with his will. They'd never done that before, never reached for anyone without his explicit command.
Yet they curled around her like greeting an old friend.
Then they found the chains. A sharp snap of metal. The ceremonial cuffs split apart and clattered to the floor, the sound ringing through the silent chamber.
