Page 83 of Bound to the Dreadlord

The promise of what he should do.

What he has done to so many before me.

“Say it,” I whisper. “Say you want me dead.”

His grip tightens.

The breath leaves my lungs, chest rising, falling—waiting.

Daring.

Veylan hesitates, his eyes narrowing as he gazes at me.

The knife does not move.

His body does not move.

Only his breathing shifts, just slightly. A single breath too slow.

His silver eyes burn into me.

Not with fury.

Not with hate.

Something worse.

I hold my breath.

The blade moves.

Slowly.

Not to cut.

Just enough to remind me that he could.

That he still holds the power here.

That he still owns me.

But then he lowers it.

Lowers the blade.

Lowers the threat.

And I hate that my stomach twists.

I hate that some part of me wanted him to press just a little harder.

To finish it.

To make it stop.

But instead, he does something far, far worse.

He leans in.

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