For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
The air grew dense, saturated with the scent of burning wax and the faint, metallic promise of blood.
Selene lay very still, though her pulse betrayed her—fluttering beneath her skin like a moth desperate to escape a jar.
Alistair watched her without blinking, the way a scholar examines a specimen placed under glass.
Not prey.
Not lover.
But an outlet for his twisted urges.
He touched her wrist first, not to restrain her but to feel the cadence of her blood. His fingers were cool—cooler than marble, colder than the jeweled rings that adorned her.
She shivered beneath his touch, the involuntary kind that fascinates creatures like him.
"Good," he murmured again, as though she were performing admirably in an unspoken test. "You're responsive, even if your mind struggles."
She didn't say anything.
Questions, at this stage, only irritated him.
