He held her gaze.
That was the worst part—he didn’t deny it quickly enough. Didn’t sayI would never let them take you. Didn’t sayyou are safe with me. Didn’t say anything that might have saved the last splinter of belief she had left.
Instead, after one long and devastating pause, he said only, “Stayclose to me once we enter.”
The words landed like a blade.
Not reassurance. Instruction. Management. Control.
A handler speaking to what was his.
Lyra swallowed hard enough to hurt.
Of course.
Of course Adrian had been right.
Of course the gala was exactly what it looked like.
Of course Caelum—who had fed her by hand, drugged her into dependence, told her the blood oath was like marriage, and watched her kill for him—would not be different at the final turn.
He had not been preparing to save her.
He had been preparing her to be sold.
A knock came at the door.
Caelum’s expression settled instantly back into polished stillness. “It’s time.”
Lyra did not move.
He stepped closer until she had no choice but to tilt her head up. His hand rose to the platinum choker at her throat, thumb resting over the sapphire like a man checking the fit of a chain.
“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.”
Her eyes burned. “For whom?”
That, at least, made something flash dark behind his own.
But he only lowered his hand and offered his arm.
She stared at it.
For one mad second she imagined taking one of the jeweled hairpins from her updo and driving it through his throat when he least expected. Imagined the blood. Imagined the collapse. Imagined the relief.
Then she remembered the oath.
Remembered the library.
Remembered that if the anchor died, the bound died with him.
Another cage. Another invisible lock.
She placed her hand on his arm because she could not yet afford to die.
His body eased, just slightly, at the contact.
And together they left the suite.
