Page 17 of His Emotional Support Snack

"I am human." I swallow the lump of terror choking my airway, keeping my gaze locked on his glowing eyes. "I bleed red, just like the rest of the Lowtown. I do not know what happened."

"A lie." He drags his knuckles along the curve of my jawline, a slow, evaluating caress. "Human blood does not glow with the brilliance of a fallen star. Human blood does not neutralize Serpent venom on contact. And human blood certainly does not repair a necrotic core."

"I am nothing." I shake my head, twisting my chin away from his touch. "The magic must have backfired. The assassin's blade⁠—"

"Do not insult my intelligence, Esmeralda."

He shifts his weight, pressing a knee into the mattress, trapping me further into the corner. His thumb presses lightly against the pulse point fluttering frantically at the base of my throat. The rapid, betraying rhythm of my heart hammers against his glove.

"Your heart races," he murmurs, his lips curving into a dark, calculating smirk. "You vibrate like a trapped bird. You possess a secret, little rat. A secret far more valuable than the lie you spin about birthing my brother's child."

I close my eyes, a cold sweat breaking across my forehead.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. The hum of his restored magic wraps around the daybed, warming the chilling air, a physical manifestation of his reclaimed dominance.

"You healed me." The awe in his tone is more terrifying than his cruelty. His hand slides from my throat, his palm resting flat against my chest, right over my erratic heartbeat. "A decade of decay, erased in a single breath. The magic in your veins... it sings to the rot. It extinguishes the fire."

I force my eyes open. "Let me take my son and go. You are healed. You do not need the fake relationship anymore. You can secure your estate without us."

A low, vibrating laugh escapes his chest.

"Go?" He leans in until his forehead rests against mine, the silver beads in his hair brushing my cheeks. "You are the most precious resource in all of Oshta. You hold the key to my survival locked inside your fragile little veins. I will burn this continent to the bedrock before I let you walk out of my sight."

The finality in his words drops like an executioner’s blade. I am no longer playing a part to survive. I am the lifeline to a monster, and he will never let me go.

12

ZUIRVIH

The frantic, staccato rhythm of her heartbeat batters against the center of my palm.

I pull away from the daybed, rising to my full height. The air in the nursery hums, saturated with a clean, potent resonance. The Marrow-Rot is silenced. My magical core, fractured and leaking chaos just moments ago, knits back together under the lingering influence of the silver blood coating my tongue. The raw power rushing through my veins is an intoxicating high.

I sweep my gaze over the ruins of the room. The ash pile. The blood-soaked rug. Commander Jarek’s men standing guard beyond the splintered threshold.

"Jarek."

The Miou commander steps into the doorway, his boots crunching over shattered oak. He inclines his head, his eyes strictly avoiding the ruined daybed where the human trembles.

"Secure the balcony. Double the perimeter patrols around the western wing." I adjust the torn collar of my tunic, rolling my shoulders. The muscles move freely, untethered by the stiff, agonizing necrosis that has plagued my every movement for a decade. "No one enters this room except Vesper. The beast will guard the heir."

The massive Batlaz huffs, resting his broad chin on the edge of Kalan's crib, crimson eyes locked onto the commander.

"Yes, my lord." Jarek bows. "And the breeder?"

I glance back at Esme. Her eyes dart toward the open door, calculating the odds of a desperate sprint past the armed guards. She is pale, her skin slick with a cold sweat, clutching her silk-bandaged forearm against her chest.

"She accompanies me."

I cross the space between us in two strides, wrapping my hand firmly around her uninjured bicep. She flinches, digging the heels of her boots into the rug, but I haul her to her feet with zero effort. The sheer discrepancy in our physical power usually satisfies my aristocratic arrogance. Tonight, it merely emphasizes her fragility. She is breakable, and breaking her means breaking my only cure.

I tow her past the wreckage, through the corridor, and into my private study.

The heavy iron doors slam shut behind us. I engage the locks with a flick of my wrist, sending a fresh, vibrant surge of magic into the metal mechanisms. The deadbolts click into place with a definitive, ringing finality.

Esme stumbles slightly as I release her arm. She catches herself against the high back of a velvet chair, her breathing shallow and ragged. She stares at the spilled Zhisk and the black blood staining the rug near the hearth—the remnants of my weakness.

I walk to the obsidian side table. The crystal decanters glitter in the dim light. I bypass the liquor, selecting a bottle of sweet, heavy Paquir wine. The ruby liquid splashes into a goblet.