Page 62

“I flushed it,” she says, retaking her seat.

“You can’t flush a cloth napkin,” Silas informs her.

“Somehow I managed,” she snaps back.

My eyes drift lazily around the room, finally falling on Daxen. He looks utterly relaxed, leaning back in his seat with an ankle propped up and resting on his knee.

His loafers are rich Italian leather—expensive, like my father’s were. He looks dressed for a business meeting, in grey slacks and a sleek light blue button-down, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.

Fates, he even took the time to trim his beard.

Eyes the color of moonstone lock on mine, staring back at me unabashedly—trying to see all the way into my soul, discover my secrets, and rip them out of me.

In another life, I would have handed over every one of my secrets. He wouldn’t even have to ask.

The irony is tragic.

I wait, knowing the next question is coming. Unlike Vae, there’s no need to goad Daxen. He’s already prepared.

Next to me, Branwen gasps. “No! You can’t⁠—”

Whatever she was going to say is drowned out by Daxen’s voice—low and strong and smothered with intent.

“Tell the truth. Do you know why your father is taking your blood?”

My brain slams to a stop. The pressure around my chest returns. It tightens. Constricts. And then I’m panicking, because what the hell kind of question is that?

He just told me why. Just last night! Why ask something he already knows the answer to?

“You know I do,” I answer, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Dax waits patiently, watching as I struggle to breathe. My grip tightens on Branwen’s hand. My already labored breaths turn painful. Air gets choked off in my throat, making me cough and wheeze.

All the while my mind races, but making sense of anything is a struggle. What’s his play? It makes no sense, and until I know his actual question⁠—

The realization slams into me, so obvious I feel stupid for not seeing it right away.

He asked a question he knows will make me look like I’m withholding important information when I answer truthfully. He knows everyone will assume that by admitting I know my father’s plans for my blood, that I’ve always known.

Known, and kept it a secret. Strategically.

Daxen doesn’t care about the truth. Daxen wants to be right.

And what’s better than using my own words against me?

Using them as a reminder to everyone else that he’s been right all along.

The room starts spinning. I sway, falling from my chair and landing on the floor. Right before my face smacks against the stone, I throw my arms out in front of me, palms smacking against the floor and tearing open the thin, chapped skin of my hands.

I know what I need to do to stop this, and even though a part of me wants to refuse to play his stupid games, I don’t intend on dying for pride.

Or Daxen.

I look up from where I’ve fallen, kneeling on the floor. Through blurry eyes, I find Daxen’s grey eyes and latch onto them. I let him see my rage. My pain. My agony. Then I level him with a glare full of disgust and force out my answer with the little air still left in my lungs.

“Y-yes.”

Giving in hurts. My Omega whines, and so do I, but without any air in my lungs, all that escapes is a raw, soundless wheeze.