Page 29 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I should be pleased with that.

Instead, something carves deep, festering beneath my gut as I catch the way she stares at the body, at the way Rhyzal liesslumped, his silver eyes dull, his mouth open in an unspoken question that will never be answered.

She doesn’t look at me.

But I feel her. Every breath, every tense muscle, every thought she does not dare voice.

That is why the laughter around the hall grates worse than usual.

A few nobles, emboldened by the carnage, lift their goblets in a mock toast. "Our Dreadlord does not share his toys, it seems."

Someone chuckles. "If he is keeping this one, perhaps she is worth more than we thought."

Another leans forward, watching Sera like a puzzle that begs to be solved. "Or perhaps she is simply softening him."

The room erupts in scattered amusement.

They do not fear me enough.

I let the goblet clink softly against the table, my fingers slow, deliberate as I set it down.

The laughter stops.

Good.

My father is silent.

He does not laugh.

Does not sip from his goblet.

He simply watches, lounging against his throne-like seat, his silver gaze a blade honed to slice.

I do not acknowledge him.

Instead, I turn and I finally look at her.

Sera’s breathing is measured, but too careful, her shoulders locked, her throat tight. She is trying to stay still. Trying to fade into the background the way slaves always do when they think they are at risk of being noticed.

She fails.

She will always fail.

Not when she is like this.

Not when she is stained with his blood.

Something curdles deep inside me.

I do not touch her gently.

My hand snaps up, seizing her chin, forcing her to face me.

Her lips part, but she does not speak.

Her pulse pounds beneath my thumb.

The stench of her fear—light, subtle, not quite terror but not quite calm—fills the distance between us.

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