And I will slaughter for her.
Bram's hand shifts on her arm, drawing her closer while he pontificates about ceremony arrangements. She doesn't resist, playing the compliant bride with practiced ease.
But I see the truth beneath—the way her jaw tightens microscopically when he touches her. The subtle distance she maintains even while pressed against his side.
She hates this.
Heat flares beneath my skin, ember-veins pulsing brighter. The celestial chains binding my ribs burn white-hot for a breath before I force control back into place.
Patience.
She hasn't given the order yet. She's playing a longer game—dismantling Bram's credibility piece by careful piece so the settlement turns against the marriage naturally.
Smart.
Strategic.
But watching another male parade her through public streets like claimed property ignites something primal in me. Something that wants to tear him apart slowly, methodically,making sure he understands exactly whose woman he dared touch.
Not because she commanded it.
Because Iwantto.
I want his blood painting the market stones. Want his screams echoing through settlement halls. Want every witness to understand what happens when someone puts hands on what belongs to?—
I stop that thought before it completes.
She doesn't belong to me. Not truly. We have a contract. An arrangement. She summoned me out of desperation, not devotion.
But when she looked at me, when she admitted she didn't want me to leave...
That wasn't contract obligation speaking.
That was choice.
Bram gestures grandly, describing imported wine and musicians. Ilyra nods at appropriate intervals, expression neutral.
Perfect performance.
Except I know what she looks like when genuinely pleased—how her eyes soften, how her lips curve without calculation. How she breathes my name in the dark.
Azrath.
The memory tightens something dangerous in my chest.
Mariselle approaches, venom already dripping from her painted smile. I shift closer through shadow, close enough to hear their exchange.
"Trying to impress someone?"
Ilyra's response comes cool and unbothered. "Wealth changes one's taste. I'll have plenty soon."
Pride surges through me.
That's my flower.
Mariselle's face flushes with impotent rage, but before she can strike back?—
Vaelra's warning cuts through. "Behave. We're in public."