Page 90 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I shouldn’t be here.

I should have left him alone, let him stew in whatever storm is raging in that twisted, unreadable mind of his.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

He’s been avoiding me, and I felt it.

It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

I find him at the table, his back to me, fingers wrapped too tightly around the stem of a goblet.

He hasn’t acknowledged me.

Good.

Fine.

I step closer, my voice colder than I thought it would be.

"What am I to you?"

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch.

The firelight casts his sharp profile in hues of gold and shadow.

Still, he says nothing.

Something inside me snaps.

I move before I can think, slamming my hand onto the table. The sound cracks through the room.

"You think ignoring me will make it go away?"

Slowly, finally, he looks up.

His silver eyes are unreadable. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

He stands, towering, but I don’t back down.

His voice is slow, deliberate. "You are speaking out of turn, little siren."

The way he says it—**the warning beneath it—**should send ice down my spine.

It doesn’t.

I step closer, defiance burning through my limbs. "Then make me stop."

His stare sharpens.

His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s warring between grabbing me or breaking me.

The tension thickens, wrapping around my throat, pressing down like a weight I don’t want to shake off.

I shove him.

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