"Your father was poisoned."
The words fall between us like stones into still water, sending ripples through the careful peace we've built in this stolen afternoon. Her body goes rigid against mine, every muscle tensing as if preparing for a blow.
I watch the play of emotions across her face—the careful hope warring with dread, the way her fingers have stilled against my chest. The moment has arrived where comfortable half-truths must give way to harder realities.
She sits up abruptly, the wedding silk pooling around her waist, her dark eyes wide with shock. "What are you talking about?"
I prop myself up on one elbow, studying her face as the truth settles over her features like a shadow. The golden light catches the silver threads in her irises—a reminder of the power that flows between us now, the bond that makes deception impossible.
"After he died, I examined the house. Your father's organs showed the residue of a slow-acting toxin—something designed to mimic natural illness over weeks." I keep my voice steady, clinical. "It's a compound I've encountered many times over the centuries. Popular among those who prefer their murders to look like misfortune."
Her breathing grows shallow, rapid. "You knew? All this time, you knew someone murdered him?"
"I suspected. The signs were clear enough to someone who's seen such things before."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question emerges as barely a whisper, but it carries betrayal, of trust shattered. "Why didn't you?—"
"Because you didn't ask." The honesty tastes bitter on my tongue, but she deserves it. "You summoned me to stop awedding, not to investigate a death. My primary concern was securing your signature on that contract."
She stares at me as if seeing me clearly for the first time—not the protective lover who held her through the night, but the demon who answered her call with his own agenda. The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than any blade I've faced.
"If you had commanded me to look into your father's murder, I would have done so. But instead, you wanted the marriage stopped." I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. "I gave you exactly what you asked for, nothing more."
"Nothing more," she repeats, her voice hollow. "My father was murdered, and you said nothing because it wasn't part of our deal."
The weight of her accusation settles into my chest like molten lead. I stare at her profile—the elegant line of her jaw, the way her dark hair falls across her shoulder—and feel something inside me crack open.
"No." The word emerges rougher than intended. "That's not... no."
She doesn't turn back to me, but I see her shoulders tense.
"I became too enthralled by you." The admission is shameful. "I forgot about the investigation altogether because I was too busy watching you, too consumed with the way you say my name in your sleep." My hand clenches against the silk beneath us. "I lost sight of everything except keeping you safe and wanting you to choose me."
A sound escapes her—half laugh, half sob—bitter and broken.
"So you admit it. You were distracted from your duties by a pretty mortal." She finally turns to face me, and the tears tracking down her cheeks catch the dying sunlight like liquid gold. "How very... human of you."
The barb hits its mark. I've spent centuries priding myself on my control, my precision, my ability to remain detachedfrom the mortals who summon me. And she's right—I failed spectacularly at all of it.
"I should have told you immediately. Should have prioritized finding his killer over?—"
"Over what? Over seducing me?" Her voice rises, sharp with hurt. "Over making sure I was too dizzy with want to ask the right questions?"
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her skin. "You gave me gifts and touched me until I couldn't think straight, and all the while you knew someone in my own house had murdered my father."
I sit up fully, reaching for her again. This time she doesn't pull away, but her body remains rigid under my touch.
"I understand now. You were being practical. Strategic." Her voice drops to a whisper, hollow and defeated. "Just like Vaelra was when she tried to sell me off to secure her future. Everyone has their priorities, their calculations. I was naive to think you were different."
The comparison to her stepmother is bitter and harsh. I've seen how Vaelra looks at Ilyra—like a commodity to be traded, a problem to be solved. The idea that I might appear the same jolts me.
"Practicality is often the enemy of love."
"Is that why you've never had anyone choose you willingly? Too practical for sentiment?"
The observation cuts deeper than it should. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply never met anyone worth the risk of being chosen."