Page 25 of Bound to the Dreadlord

He is too close to the truth and it’s uncomfortable.

"You think I don’t see it?" He speaks softly, but the steel is there, razor-edged and waiting. "You think I don’t recognize obsession when it festers?"

A slow, lazy smile curves his lips, but his silver eyes are dead, void of anything human.

"You are not immune to the sickness of desire, Veylan. And you are not immune to its consequences."

Maelrik’s smirk sharpens. "He wouldn’t be the first to fall victim to a human’s tricks."

Vaedros hums in agreement, running a finger over the rim of his goblet. "You do remember what happened to the last noble who thought he could keep one, don’t you?"

I grip the table, hard enough to splinter the wood beneath my fingers.

Hazeran watches, waiting for a crack in my armor.

There is none.

"If I wanted her dead, she would be dead." My voice is even, unshakable.

"Would she?"

He says it so softly that it almost doesn’t register. Almost.

But the way the silence tightens after?

That registers.

The warning is not just for me. It is for them.

For my brothers.

For anyone who thinks to touch what is mine.

I stay rooted on my position, locking my muscles in and forcing myself to just be still.

If I move, I might betray something.

Something I do not even want to acknowledge.

Hazeran leans back, clasping his hands together in mock thoughtfulness.

"Obsession is weakness," he murmurs. "It is the slow rot of empires. The downfall of men greater than you."

He tilts his head, his voice turning mockingly soft.

"Do you intend to fall, my son?"

The words dig under my skin, sinking, twisting.

I hate that he can see it, loathe that he has found something to exploit, even if I refuse to admit that it is there.

My fingers curl. Then, slowly, I straighten.

I refuse to let him think he has won.

"She is nothing," I say again.

This time, I mean it.

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