Page 84 of The Sin Binder's Chains

Not even a courtesy riot.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "I should be holding her."

I lift my head to glare at the mirrors.

Elias, that smug, insufferable menace, adjusts his grip on her, keeping her steady in the saddle. His expression isn’t serious orsmug or anything remotely deserving of my wrath, but still, I loathe it.

Not him.

The situation.

Because I am supposed to be there.

She should be sleeping against me, tucking herself into my warmth, wrapped in my arms, not being propped up by that walking catastrophe.

"I am being wronged," I whisper, the words full of sorrow. "History will remember this."

Another sigh.

Another great, bone-deep suffering.

The door opens. And I am forced to suffer a new injustice.

Malachi Veyd steps inside like he owns the place, which is absurd because I am the one suffering here, and he is merely a guest in my misery.

He shuts the door with an easy flick of his wrist, his sharp green eyes sweeping the room, taking in my state of great suffering. He doesn’t comment on it.

Which is offensive.

If I’m going to waste away in captivity, the least he can do is acknowledge my slow demise.

Instead, he exhales, dragging a hand through his too-perfect dark curls. "Gods." His voice is rich with resentment, like the mere act of existing in the same space as me is an insult. "You’re still here."

"Oh, wonderful," I mutter, not moving from my artfully sprawled position. "You’ve come to deliver my eulogy."

"You’re not dead."

"Not yet," I correct. "But it’s coming. Slowly. Tragically. I am slipping, Malachi."

He scowls. "You’re in a palace."

"A prison."

"With silk sheets."

"A gilded prison."

He exhales sharply, already tired of me, which is fair, but also rude considering I’ve had to tolerate my own company for days now.

"You have everything you could possibly need here," he mutters, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. "Food, comfort, entertainment. "

"You think this is entertainment?" I gesture broadly at the fucking mirrors lining the walls. "Watching, but not touching? Seeing, but not having? Tell me, Malachi, what kind of sick bastard came up with that?"

A slow grin tugs at his lips, sharp, lacking warmth. "Oh? Is it painful?"

Ah.

There he is.

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