Page 28 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Like there was never another outcome.

The nobles are still silent and watchful.

The laughter starts.

Soft at first, a few scattered chuckles, but then it spreads, rippling through the room like a slow-building tide.

"Well," someone muses, amusement laced in their tone. "It seems our Dreadlord does not share his toys."

More laughter follows, murmurs of approval, of mockery, of dangerous amusement.

I barely hear them.

Veylan is watching me.

His silver eyes lock onto mine, dark and unreadable.

There is no fury.

No warning.

No sign that what he just did had been anything other than instinct.

But in the depths of his gaze, there is something else.

Something worse than rage.

Something that coils tight around my whole being.

Obsession.

Powerful men have fallen for something else.

14

VEYLAN

The murmur of voices grates against my patience.

Soft whispers, muffled laughter, the rustle of silken robes shifting as the nobles lean in—watching, dissecting, waiting for my next move.

They are amused.

Not by the corpse cooling at their feet, not by the red smeared across polished marble, not by the fact that I just severed a noble’s throat without a second thought—but by what it means.

By what she means.

Sera.

My hold tightens around the goblet in my grasp. I should crush it.

Instead, I lift it to my lips and drink.

She is still beside me, frozen in place, the blood splattered across her cheek a stark contrast against that delicate, pale skin.

She does not tremble.

Does not shrink away.

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