I hear only his slow steps as he crosses the room. A chill spreads outward from him, creeping across the floor inch by inch until my breath turns faintly visible. I keep my eyes fixed on the stone, but in my peripheral vision I see enough. His tattooed hand gripping the chair. The flex of muscle along his forearm as he pulls it out. The broad lines of his back as he sits before the meal I prepared.
Then the faint clink of silver. The pour of tea into a cup. A swallow, and finally, a soft, barely audible exhale.
Satisfaction.
It hits me like a miracle. He might as well have applauded.
He eats. I hear the scrape of the fork, the rhythm of refilled tea, even the near-feral slosh of his jaw as he devours the meal. Human or Fae, I know the sound of someone enjoying their food.
Relief loosens the tight knot in my chest… until he stops.
The fork drops against the plate with a violent clang.
His pale, powerful hands, veined and steady, grip the arms of his chair. The room stills around him.
“What is this?” he growls.
My stomach plummets. That tone is not pleased. It vibrates through the air, through the floor, through me.“I… it’s breakfast,” I manage. “It’s hot. I made sure…”
“Not the food,” he snaps. “This. What is this?”
I force myself to look at him. Terror crawls up my spine as I raise my chin.
His jaw is clenched hard, his eyes blazing, a scowl carved so deep it feels like it could cut me open. He nods toward the table.
I follow his gaze… and finally see it.
A trail of blood. Five or six drops, stark and damning against the pristine white tablecloth.
My stomach twists.
Behind my back, I clench my fist and feel warm blood pool in my palm again.
“I am sorry, Lord Luceran,” I whisper. “I was trying to make it perfect. I cut myself on a thorn when I took a rose from the garden.”
The temperature plunges. The stone beneath him cracks outward in jagged lines of ice. I gasp as it bites through my layers like teeth.
He rises so quickly his chair skids across the floor, gliding on a sudden sheen of frost until it slams into a pillar.
His gaze snaps to the table, then to the rose. The single bloom resting in its glass vase.He must not have noticed it before. He notices now.
“Who gave you permission to take a rose from the garden?” he demands.
I swallow, teeth clicking together. “No one, my lord. I just thought…”
“You are not here to think. You are here to do as you are told and nothing more. What is so hard to understand about that, Neve Devlin? You are my servant. You only breathe because I allow it.”
My whole body shakes, part fear, part cold, part raw fury I cannot smother. He stalks toward me, frost curling around his boots like smoke. For a moment, I truly believe this is it. The end. Humans are disposable in a world ruled by the Fae, and I was naïve to believe my fate would be any different.
But fear does not stop me from straightening my spine.
We may be lesser in their eyes, but I will not die cowering.If he means to kill me, he will do it looking into my eyes.He will remember the face of the girl he chose to break.
His hand lifts slowly, fingers curling as he reaches for my face. The runes beneath his shirt pulse, his chest rising with each controlled breath, and gods, if I did not know better, I would swear he is trembling too.
His fingers reach the end of a loose strand of my hair. He twists it around his finger, the vivid red stark against his winter-pale skin. Night and day. Fire and ice.
But he does not yank. He does not strike. He does not freeze me where I stand.
