Severin stroked Isolde's cheek, giving her time to think—whose fetus would she save? The one growing inside her, or the one inside Liraine?
He wasn't offering mercy. He was testing her and watching and waiting to see what kind of woman she really was.
His fingers slid from her cheek to her furrowed brow, brushing it like he owned every inch of her face. Then he spoke, voice low, calculated.
"Stop trying to play the saint here, Isolde. That's not who you are. Just because you've landed in the Devil's nest doesn't mean you need to be the one fucking angel in the room. That's not you. You've never given a shit about anyone's pain but your own."
He tilted his head, pleased when the crease on her brow eased under his touch. His fingers moved again, tracing her cheek, then down to her jaw, less sharp than it used to be when she first arrived here.
That small change? It pleased him. Watching her shapeshift under his control, watching her unravel.
