Page 157 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Stay,” I ordered, still watching Arabella. “We’re finishing the stabilization discussion.”

She reached the table, eyes roaming over the runes. “Any progress?”

“Some,” Griffin answered, visibly grateful for a distraction. “We’re close.”

Arabella turned to me, all challenge and unwavering gaze. “And the Lifeweave Ritual? Have you decided? Or are you still hoping to stall until the Heirloom collapses?”

My spine went rigid. I’d been putting that decision off for days. “We have other options to explore first,” I said, layering my voice with finality.

“Do we?”

I forced a measured exhale. “Yes.”

When Griffin tried—and failed—to look anywhere else, Arabella caught him with a direct question. “Tell me honestly: is the ritual our best shot at repairing the Heirloom permanently?”

He stood there, loyalty and honesty waging war behind his eyes. Then he sighed. “Yes. Stabilization might keep it usable in limited fashion, but the Lifeweave Ritual is the only method that could fully mend that fracture.”

Arabella gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Griffin.”

I glowered at Griffin for his betrayal; he busied himself collecting notes. “I’ll, uh, continue my calculations elsewhere,” he mumbled, then practically sprinted out before I could banish him to the scorpion-infested vaults.

Silence draped the room as I turned to the window. A flicker of lightning rimmed the sky. Behind me, Arabella steadied her breath.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said.

I stared at the faint reflection of my own face in the window’s glass. “Are you suggesting I ignore Auremar massing troops on our borders? The Hero’s Guild planning a frontal assault? My time is better spent anticipating them than placating you.”

Her voice dropped a notch. “I’d rather have your honesty than your placation. Why won’t you discuss the Lifeweave Ritual?”

A cold spike of dread traced down my spine. “It’s too dangerous.”

“For who?”

I turned, half tempted to hurl a paperweight to release tension. “If you connect your bloodline and healing power directly to that damaged artifact, you could die. We have alternatives?—”

“Stop lying to me.” She moved closer, eyes snapping with anger. “You’ve been hiding in the war room all week so you won’t have to decide. At least admit that.”

The flare of anger in me nearly ignited a corner of a map. I inhaled through my teeth. “Yes. The risk to you is unacceptable. And yes, apparently, that matters to me. Satisfied?”

She took that in, her anger wavering. “Complicated,” she murmured.

I let myself laugh darkly. “I’d call that an understatement.” Shifting topics, I gestured at troop movements. “Morana whined again this morning about my forces clogging her borders. But she’s terrified Auremar will come for her first.”

“Are you deliberately drawing the king’s ire toward Arvoryn?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “She’s strategic ground. Besides, I’m tired of her attempts to hedge her bets. Edmund is more malleable.”

She eyed me with faint amusement. “That’s a polite way of saying you plan to dispose of Morana.”

“She’s outlived her usefulness,” I admitted. “No sense pretending otherwise.”

Arabella folded her arms, apparently unbothered by my casual cruelty. “So you’re done changing the subject?”

I held her gaze. “What do you want, Arabella? I can’t think straight where you’re concerned. Sacrificing you is no longer something I’m willing to risk. That’s the truth you demanded.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to respond, maybe to press for more—but an icy jolt of magic shot through my runes. The wards flared in warning.

“Visitors,” I muttered. “Stay here.”

---