The words settled between us, honest and unadorned. Not rejection. Not quite a promise either.
Just… acknowledgment. Respect.
My throat felt tight. “Thank you.”
Daemon’s expression gentled. “You’re welcome. Just a warning, though, next time, I won’t just be giving.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I felt myself flush again.
Daemon held my gaze, waiting. I nearly answered him. Nearly said something reckless. I had thrown myself at him the night before, but it had been clear he’d wanted me just as much. The usual chill in his eyes, sharp and calculating, had been replaced with something contained and dangerous, a consistent, slow-burning hunger he was keeping on a leash.
His hands shifted subtly, as if restraining instinct.
And I knew I didn’t have the discipline to deny him if he decided to stop holding back.
The memory of him against me last night still lingered in my body like a brand. I forced the thought away.
“I wonder if there’s anything to drink,” I said lightly. “I’m suddenly very thirsty.”
Without a word, Daemon rose and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned with water.
The awkwardness didn’t vanish, but it softened. The edge dulled. What remained felt less like embarrassment and more like anticipation.
Daemon sat, setting two glasses on the table before gesturing lazily toward the couch. “Come on. Sitting’s more comfortable than pretending you’re fascinated by the floor.”
I shot him a playful glare despite myself.
Instead of taking the chair across from him, I settled beside him on the couch. Close. Close enough that our shoulders would brush if either of us shifted.
He leaned back, stretching one leg onto the table, then subtly angled himself toward me. His arm draped along the back of the couch, fingers hanging loosely just behind my neck.
Heat pooled low in my stomach.
I stayed exactly where I was.
“Tell me about the training,” he said, his gaze dipping briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “What did Lyralei teach you?”
So I told him.
About the Veil being fabric rather than an element. About the Void, and the thing that ruled it. About the Hollow Throne and the curse devouring his bloodline one generation at a time.
As I spoke, the last of the teasing tension faded. His expression grew thoughtful. Somber.
“Zephyr suspected something beneath the throne,” he said when I finished. “Not long after I joined them, the King sent us to clean up after one of his massacres. A Fae village.” His jaw tightened slightly. “We found a hidden cellar. Inside was a painting. The background only depicted a set of eyes, vast and watching. Everything else was slaughter.”
His fingers traced idle patterns along the edge of the cushion.
“I thought it symbolized the burden of the crown. The rot that comes with absolute power.”
“It does,” I said quietly. “But it’s more than that. It’s alive. And it’s waiting.”
He didn’t look surprised.
“Killing my father won’t end it,” I continued. “The next Thorne will have to bind their soul to the throne and hold it back. And it will corrupt them. Just like it did him. And his father before him.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Our mission isn’t to overthrow the King anymore,” I said, drawing my knees up slightly. “It’s to destroy the Devourer. Or send it back to the Void. Lyralei thinks I might be able to.”
