She knew that, yet she still asked, “What is the price?”
Storms filled Ryker’s dark gaze. He sat a few feet away, but an ocean might as well have been dividing them.
She’d done that to him. To them.
Brynleigh couldn’t bear to look at Ryker for more than a few heartbeats. The air was cold, but it had nothing compared to the frigidness stretching between them.
Dropping her gaze, she studied Ryker’s coffee mug. Focusing on that was a much better option than thinking about everything else.
The blood had helped take the edge off her hunger, and most of her external wounds were healing. That was good. There was still a hollowness in her stomach, though. Maybe it would always remain, a reminder that she’d spent weeks starving and being tortured.
Being full was a distant memory, but at least her fangs no longer burned, and her shadows were returning. They hummed gently in her veins, their song a muted version of their usual symphony.
She wasn’t sure she could call on her wings if she needed them, not that it mattered. Ryker had made it clear she wasn’t leaving this place.
She was still a prisoner; her cage had just been upgraded.
The fae captain inhaled deeply and twisted a box around in his hands, staring at it as though it contained the secrets of the universe.
His voice was gravelly as he asked, “Have you ever heard of Emery Sylvain?”
Brynleigh canted her head, repeating the name in her mind. It sounded vampiric in origin, but it didn’t ring any bells.
She frowned. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
It was unique enough that she was certain she’d remember if she heard it.
Ryker’s fingers tightened around the box. Brynleigh stared at the movement, fascinated. His fingers were bigger than hers—no surprise there, all of him was bigger than her—and callouses covered the pads of his fingers. His hands had a rough elegance that spoke to a life of hard work.
Sadness swept through her as she recalled the first time they’d touched.
Maybe looking at his hands had been a bad idea.
She dropped her gaze and swallowed. The uncomfortable air between them was painful, and her chest ached. Seconds ticked by. Each was longer than the last and filled with a horrible tension that never used to plague them.
“You’re certain? Emery Sylvain.” Ryker drew out the syllables as if she hadn’t properly heard him the first time.
She looked up. Instantly, she regretted the action. He was staring at her, his gaze sharp, and his mouth pinched in a line.
She shook her head and shrugged. “I have no clue who that is.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. There was nothing kind in his expression—he looked at her as if she was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
After a few painful minutes, he sighed. “Are you lying to me again?”
Again.
She hated that he even had to ask that. She squeezed her eyes shut so he wouldn’t see the hurt flickering through them, and she curled her fists. Her nails cut crescent moons in her palms.
Did Ryker know his words were sharper than any of the silver instruments of torture she’d been subjected to over the past three weeks?
After what Brynleigh had done, she deserved the question, but it still stung. All of this stung.
She wouldn’t cry, though. She wouldn’t let him know how deeply he was hurting her.
Her pain was her penance.
“I’m not lying,” she said when she could trust herself to speak without her voice breaking. “I swear on my family’s graves, I will never lie to you again.” What would be the point? She and Ryker were already shattered. “I have never heard the name.”