Page 30 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I do not let go.

My grip is firm, tilting her face just enough for me to see it properly.

The way the blood clings to her cheek.

The way it smears down her throat, a single red streak carved over porcelain skin.

I should be unaffected.

It is only blood.

I have seen it on her before.

But not like this.

Not when it does not belong to her.

Not when it belongs to him.

Something twists inside me.

"Did he touch you?" My voice is soft, but too soft. The kind of softness that means something is about to break.

She blinks up at me, stunned by the question.

Shakes her head, lips parting, but no words come.

Lying? Or truth?

I cannot tell.

I have spent my life carving screams from human throats, peeling their secrets from their trembling bodies like parchment stripped from bone.

Yet, I cannot tell if she is lying.

That realization should irritate me.

Instead, it intrigues me.

I release her with a sharp flick of my wrist.

I should punish her.

Should strip her of this ridiculous illusion of safety.

Should remind her what she is.

Instead, I stand.

And when I grip her wrist, dragging her behind me, I do not break the contact.

I do not spare the nobles another glance.

Not even when I feel their hungry eyes trailing after us, their amusement curdling into something else.

Not even when I feel my father’s gaze, razor-sharp and knowing, pressing against my back.

I do not look back.

---