Pride swells unexpectedly. She hasn't asked me for currency, though I'd give it freely. She's making do with what little she has while Vaelra and that worthless daughter hoard the household funds.
Ilyra moves to the vegetable cart next, selecting three carrots and a handful of greens. Nothing extravagant. Nothing frivolous.
I lean against the stone pillar supporting a canopy, arms crossed, content to simply observe her navigate this mundane human ritual. The morning light catches the silver sheen in her irises when she turns her head. My mark. Visible to anyone with eyes to see it, though none here would recognize?—
Movement.
Cold violet eyes across the square.
Bram.
Every muscle in my frame goes rigid. The market sounds fade to white noise as fury ignites behind my sternum like a forge stoked too hot.
That pathetic excuse for nobility stands near the central fountain, draped in dark leathers that cost more than most of these humans will see in a lifetime. His silver-blond hair gleams in the sunlight. Those predatory eyes lock onto Ilyra like a hunter spotting wounded prey.
No.
Like a collector spotting a butterfly to pin behind glass.
My hands curl into fists, ember-veins flaring beneath my skin. The celestial chains binding my shoulders pulse with warning heat, but I ignore them.
Ilyra remains oblivious, examining tomatoes with careful attention. She has no idea he's here. No idea he's moving.
Bram starts across the square, movements unnervingly graceful, that thin smile already curving his lips.
Every instinct screams at me to materialize between them. To wrap shadows around his throat and squeeze until those violet eyes go dark.
But the contract. The timing. Her explicit orders to wait for the perfect moment.
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
He's twenty paces away now. Fifteen.
Ilyra sets down a tomato and reaches for her coin purse.
Ten paces.
I step closer to the edge of shadow, ready to break every rule if he dares touch her.
"Hello, Ilyra."
She jumps, coin purse nearly slipping from her fingers as she spins around. That peaceful expression—the one I put there yesterday with my mouth between her thighs—morphs into something guarded. Impenetrable walls slamming into place.
Smart girl.
"Lord Hethryn." Her voice carries none of the warmth she reserves for me.
Bram's smile widens, violet eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction. "I've seen you around this market for many years. Did you know that? Always wanted to bring you home."
I scoff from the shadows, the sound swallowed by market noise. The dumb bastard probably thinks his years of stalking counts as some grand romantic gesture. That watching her, cataloging her movements, fantasizing about ownership somehow flatters rather than revolts.
"I'm surprised you have time for market visits." Ilyra shifts the basket against her hip, angling herself away from him subtly. "Surely trade negotiations keep you occupied."
"Well." He steps closer, that predatory grace making my skin crawl. "I can't resist the view."
His gaze climbs the length of her body—throat to chest to hips—lingering with deliberate assessment.
Rage detonates white-hot behind my ribs.