Page 40 of Bound to the Dreadlord

His grip falters. His fingers tremble.

The knife presses deeper for a moment—then wavers.

His breathing grows ragged, unsteady. His pulse thrums beneath his skin, so loud I can hear it.

He should drive the dagger through my throat.

Instead, he hesitates.

The moment stretches—an eternity of silence.

His hands start to shake.

Then his knees buckle.

The assassin stares at me as if he’s seen something he cannot comprehend.

His lips part in a breathless rasp, but no words form.

He can’t move.

I did that.

What am I?

A growl cuts through the silence—a dark, visceral warning.

Veylan erupts, rushing toward me faster than I have ever seen him move.

Fury incarnate.

His sword sings through the air.

The closest assassin never even has a chance to scream.

One slice—his head parts from his body, rolling onto the blood-slick floor.

A lifeless thud.

I am still pressed against the bed, panting, trembling, my skin tight with something new, something unspoken.

Veylan doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t move.

He stares.

Not at the corpses. Not at the blood pooling beneath his boots.

At me.

At the assassin still standing there, swaying, trembling.

At what my voice has done.

His silver eyes narrow, calculating.

His grip flexes around the sword hilt.

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