Page 42 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I did that.

Again.

Veylan turns, chest heaving, a new kind of stillness settling over him.

His silver eyes burn.

Not with rage.

Not with curiosity.

The assassin, still frozen, is shaking in place.

His mouth moves.

A rasp. A prayer.

A plea.

Veylan ignores it.

Instead, he looks at me.

He does not kill the assassin.

His eyes is on me and it makes something in me weak.

18

VEYLAN

The assassin crumples.

His body shudders—a man who should be fighting, should be clawing for survival.

Instead, he whimpers.

His fingers twitch, his knees buckle, and his breath comes out in short, uneven gasps—like an animal that has been chained down by something invisible.

Something unnatural.

I don’t so much as look at him.

I stop caring about him.

She is standing there, her lips still parted, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven rhythm, shoulders drawn tight as if she fears what she just did.

As if she has never seen true power before.

As if she doesn’t realize it belongs to her.

I take a step forward.

Her gaze snaps to mine.

Our eyes lock, and I don’t look away. I want her to see my curiosity. My questions.

The flames cast long shadows against the walls, flickering over her pale skin, the blood drying in streaks down my own.

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