Page 27 of Bound to the Dreadlord

But Rhyzal presses further.

"If she’s only a pet," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, dripping with challenge, "surely you wouldn’t mind sharing, Dreadlord?"

The words coil through the air, sinking their claws into my spine.

Everything stops.

The music. The laughter.

The very air in the room seems to wither, curling into something brittle, something fragile.

A wrong step. A breath too loud. And it will shatter.

Rhyzal does not seem to realize it yet.

Or maybe, in his drunken arrogance, he does not care.

He reaches for me.

His fingers brush my wrist, a light touch—barely anything.

It happens too fast.

One moment, Rhyzal is seated. The next, his throat is no longer whole.

A flash of silver.

A sharp, wet sound.

A spray of crimson across the table.

The noble’s goblet falls from his hand, rolling across the floor.

And I do not move.

Blood stains my skin, hot and fresh, dripping from the curve of my cheek, streaking down my throat.

I cannot look away.

Rhyzal’s body slumps forward, his mouth parting in what could have been another drunken remark, if not for the way the red gushed from his lips instead.

His chair topples, and the sound of his body hitting the marble floor is deafening.

Silence presses against the walls, against my ribs, against the scream rising in my throat.

Did that just?—

My breath sticks somewhere between horror and disbelief.

Veylan does not blink.

His sword is already sheathed. As if the motion had been nothing more than an afterthought.

He lifts his goblet again, taking a slow sip, silver eyes as calm as still water.

Like this was inevitable.

Like Rhyzal had only gotten what he deserved.

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