Page 40 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“Not going to happen,” I scoff. Honestly, Governor or not, this man’s audacity knows no bounds.

“I beg to differ,” he growls, leaning into my personal space.

“Why? Worried I’m going to discover that you’re the murderer?”

He reels back slightly. “What would make you think that?”

“Well, you seem to be making quite a habit of killing so far,” I mutter, finishing the last stitch and quickly withdrawing my hand from his.

“I didn’t kill those women, Miss Wren,” he hisses through his teeth as he withdraws his hand from the table.

“Yes, well, forgive me if I don’t believe you since you keep impeding my investigation.”

“Forgive me if I say that your friends will suffer should you not be so forthcoming,” he growls, and my heart rate spikes.

“If you dare hurt them–”

“I won’t have to if you co-operate,” he states simply, running his now healed hand across the stubble of his jaw.

I sit there unmoving, openly seething at him. His eyes soften a little and he leans forward onto his elbows, closing the distance between us.

“Love will get you killed, Little Wren,” he murmurs, his jaw twitching. “It is a weakness that will only serve to harm you.”

I want to snap back, tell him he’s wrong, but I see the genuine honesty in his eyes and my anger subsides a fraction. I can see he really believes that, and something in my heart clenches painfully at the thought.

“I know,” I admit, just as quietly. “But it’s the only thing I have left to cling on to when every other part of me is gone.”

He frowns, tilting his head slightly. “Because you use magic?”

I nod and he draws in closer, his eyes glinting conspiratorially. “Somehow, I think you’ll be okay.”

“What do you–”

“Now, you’re going to tell me what you know about these murders,” he repeats as he leans back away from me, the green in his gaze fixed on mine like twin shards of glass.

I cross my arms, feigning nonchalance even though my pulse thuds incessantly in my throat. Two can play at this game.

“I might. But only if you tell me why you are so interested in them.”

He arches a brow. “Unlike your Division, I don’t have the luxury of ignoring dead citizens when they start piling up on my doorstep. What happens in Eidravelle is of no consequence to me, but if a citizen of Aethermere is next, I need to know.”

I grit my teeth. “Is that what you told Cyril before you slit his throat? That he was of ‘no consequence’?”

His eyes roll upward, not in guilt, but irritation. “You should take better care choosing your friends. There are many things you don’t yet understand, Detective.”

I lean in closer this time, the desk creaking slightly as it takes my weight. “Then stop being cryptic and enlighten me.”

He studies me silently, as if deciding how much truth I can bear. “Tell me first, what connects your victims? What is it you’re chasing?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“So are you.”

We lock eyes, a quiet duel of patience and will. My mind races through every rumour I’ve heard about him, every whispered story of the Governor of Aethermere. None of them fit this man entirely. There’s something else beneath the menace, I’m sure of it. Purpose, maybe… or madness.

“Fine,” I say at last, exhaling sharply. “The victims were found barricaded in locked rooms, no wounds, all with their memories siphoned. Which means someone’s using magic, the kind that’s supposed to be impossible for a mortal without a death wish.” I tilt my head. “That sound familiar to you?”

Riven’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker in his facade, a muscle tightening in his jaw, a brief flash of something dark behind his eyes.