She drew in a breath through her nose, slow and measured. Her grip on the glass eased—not out of comfort, but control. Control she couldn't afford to lose. Not here. Not now.
There'd been enough tonight.
More than enough.
Lucavion's dismantling of Lucien. Her own public defiance. The recording. The silence that followed like a storm's eye. She had drawn blood in a room made of mirrors. There was no need to draw more.
'I've already taken more ground than they'll allow. This should be enough. Let it be enough.'
But Thalor?
Thalor had no intention of letting it rest.
His eyes hardened—not in fury, but in that cold, academic way he used when dissecting a spell, or a lie, or a person. The amused veneer peeled back just a sliver, revealing something darker.
Possessive.
Wounded.
Entitled.
"So?" he asked, stepping a fraction closer. "Is that it, then? Is he the new man you've found?"
His voice wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be.
