7. Seraphina
7
SERAPHINA
T he blood on my palm has dried.
It lingers as a thin, dark stain against my skin, a silent reminder of the promise I just made. A promise sealed in flesh, in heat, in something I don’t dare name.
I should feel victorious. I secured Rylan’s protection, wove myself into his world before he could shut me out.
Instead, I feel trapped.
Not by chains, not by steel, but by something far worse.
By him.
Rylan watches me from across the room, his long fingers wrapped around the stem of a crystal glass filled with deep, inky wine. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, studying me with an expression I can’t decipher. He hasn’t spoken since the blood pact.
He doesn’t have to.
I feel him.
His presence coils through the room, a silent current that brushes against my skin, warning me that I’ve stepped too close to something I shouldn’t want to touch.
I exhale sharply, tearing my gaze away. "What now?"
Rylan smirks. "Eager, little thief?"
I hate that name. Hate the way it slips from his lips like silk, like possession.
I cross my arms. "I just don’t like waiting for whatever game you’re playing."
His chuckle is quiet, indulgent. "You think this is a game?"
I meet his gaze without flinching. "I think everything is a game to you."
Something flickers in his eyes—something I don’t recognize. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
He leans back in his chair, tilting his head slightly. "Tell me, Seraphina," he drawls, voice smooth as sin. "How do you feel about noblewomen?"
The shift in subject is abrupt. Calculated.
My stomach knots.
I school my features into careful indifference. "I try to avoid them."
His smirk deepens. "How unfortunate."
A sharp knock at the door shatters the air between us.
The energy in the room shifts, crackling with something colder, sharper.
Rylan doesn’t move right away. Instead, he watches me for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if waiting for something.
Lazily, he lifts his glass to his lips and calls out, "Enter."
The door glides open on silent hinges, and the smell of amber and something darker, something venomous slithers into the room.
I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
I feel her before I see her.
"Rylan," a voice purrs, smooth as velvet, edged with poison.
Lady Lartina.
She steps into the room like she owns it, her presence cold and commanding. Her gown—black as midnight, kissed with silver embroidery—clings to her tall, elegant frame. The deep violet of her lips curves into something that isn’t quite a smile, and her crimson eyes flick toward me.
A pause. A slow once-over. A calculated lingering.
I keep my expression blank, but my pulse quickens.
I know women like her. Women who smile as they carve knives into your back. Women who will burn entire cities just to watch the embers glow.
She is dangerous.
And Rylan let her in.
She turns her attention back to him, ignoring me like I’m a piece of furniture. "I was hoping we could talk in private."
Rylan takes another slow sip of his wine. "And yet, you’re talking in front of an audience."
Her lips curve. "So I am."
My fists tighten at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
He’s testing me. This is a test.
And I can’t afford to fail.
I say nothing. I do nothing. But I feel everything.
Lartina moves toward him, slow, deliberate. "It’s been too long," she murmurs, resting one perfectly manicured hand on the tip of his chair. "You’ve been avoiding me."
Rylan smirks. "Have I?"
"You have."
She leans in, her fingers trailing along the carved wood of his chair, just shy of touching him. Her crimson gaze flickers to his mouth, then back to his eyes. A practiced dance. A well-worn intimacy.
I should look away.
I don’t.
I need to see this.
I need to understand what she is to him.
Rylan doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. But he also doesn’t indulge.
"You don’t like being ignored," he muses.
Lartina’s lips part, her breath brushing against his cheek. "I don’t."
A slow, taut silence.
Just as easily, she leans back, her gaze flicking toward me once more. "And this?" she asks, voice dripping with false curiosity. "A pet?"
Something inside me snaps.
I don’t move. Don’t flinch. But the air in my lungs burns.
Before I can speak, Rylan exhales, long and slow. "She’s under my protection."
The words slither over my skin, wrapping tight.
Not an answer. Not a denial. A claim.
Lartina tilts her head slightly, studying me the way one might study a strange, caged creature. Assessing. Calculating.
She smiles. Sharp. Knowing.
"Of course," she murmurs, before shifting her attention back to Rylan. "We’ll speak soon, won’t we?"
A game. Everything about her is a game. All of these dark elves think that toying with the lives of those beneath them is just one twisted fucking game.
Rylan merely smirks. "If you’re lucky."
Lartina chuckles, then turns, her gown brushing against the stone floor as she sweeps out of the room.
The door shuts.
Silence.
A silence that stretches too long.
Rylan lifts a brow. "Jealous, little thief?"
I scoff, folding my arms. "Just wondering how many knives you’ve had to pull out of your back."
His lips curl. "Only the ones I let them plant."
I shake my head, stepping away. "She’s still in your life."
It’s not a question. It’s a fact.
Rylan leans back in his chair, gaze heavy on mine. "Does that bother you?"
It shouldn’t.
But the truth slithers beneath inside me, cold and unwelcome.
I sensed danger the moment she entered the room.
Lartina isn’t done with him.
And if I’m not careful, she won’t be done with me either.