Her arm. Blood seeping through torn fabric. A slash across her forearm—shallow, probably not serious, but the sight of it makes my vision narrow to a single red point.
The fire in me surges so violently that I have to step back from her to avoid losing control entirely.
He was aiming for her throat.
If I’d been a heartbeat slower. If she’d moved a fraction in the wrong direction. If her magic hadn’t weakened him enough to throw off his aim?—
“Enforcer.” Corveth’s voice cuts through the haze. “The hall is secure. Casualties are?—”
“Later.” I don’t look away from Alerie. Can’t look away. “Get a healer. Now.”
“The council will want?—”
“I said later.”
TEN
IZAN
The command carries the full force of dragon authority. Corveth flinches. So do several other guards who’ve gathered at the alcove’s entrance. They disperse without further argument.
Alerie stares at me with an expression I can’t read. Not fear. Not gratitude. More complicated than either. Already working through what she just saw and what it means for her position.
“You killed him slowly.” Her voice is quiet. “While everyone watched.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The word drops into the alcove’s silence.
“Because he dared to mar what belongs to me.” The words are a low, guttural vibration. “The city only stands because you’re safe within it. If they ever take a second drop of your blood, I will turn Pyraeth into a tomb of cooling glass.”
Silence.
“That’s not rational.”
“No.”
Her breath catches. The sound is audible in the alcove’s sudden quiet.
“You’re moving to my private chambers.” The decision crystallizes as I speak it. “Security concern. Until we’ve identified all threats and ensured no further attempts.”
“Your chambers.”
“Adjacent to mine.” The same arrangement as before, but closer. More defensible. Moremine. “Close enough that I can reach you in seconds. Close enough to hear if anything happens.”
“That’s not a security decision.”
“No.” I step toward her, finally giving in to the need to close the distance between us. “It’s not.”
Her eyes widen as I reach for her injured arm. My touch is careful—more careful than I’ve been with anything in decades—as I examine the wound. Shallow. Clean. The healer will close it easily.
It shouldn’t matter. It’s barely a scratch.
My hands tremble against her skin.
“You burned a man alive because of this.” She’s watching my face. “A scratch.”
