12. Rylan
12
RYLAN
I shouldn’t want her here.
Not in my space, not in my thoughts, and certainly not standing so close that the scent of her—wild, sharp, something that shouldn’t tempt me—clings to the air between us.
But she is.
Seraphina stands by the window of my study, arms folded, eyes distant. The candlelight casts flickering gold over her skin, catching in the loose strands of her dark hair. She’s too still, too lost in thought.
I don’t like it.
I should send her away. I should be thinking of more important things. Like the assassin bleeding out in my dungeons. Like the fact that Nhilian, the man who destroyed my family, is moving pieces I didn’t see until now.
Like Lartina, who I should still crave—who once owned me in ways I never let anyone else.
But Seraphina stands here instead. And for some reason, I don’t want her to leave.
I step forward slowly, my boots soundless against the stone. "You’re quiet."
Her shoulders tense slightly before she turns to face me. "Should I be filling the silence?"
I smirk, leaning against my desk. "Usually, you’re sharper than this. I’m starting to think I’m wearing you down, little thief."
Her gaze flickers over me, calculating. Noticing too much, as always.
"You wish," she mutters, but her usual fire is dim.
I narrow my eyes. Something is wrong.
"Out with it," I say.
She exhales, shaking her head. "It’s nothing."
Lie.
And I don’t like when she lies to me.
I push off the desk, closing the distance between us in three slow steps. She doesn’t move as I stop just before her, close enough warmth of her breath reaches me.
"Try again," I murmur.
She lifts her chin. Defiant. Always.
But I see it now—the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitch. Seraphina is never still unless she’s hiding something.
My hand moves before I think, tilting her face up with two fingers under her chin. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, too soft for someone who’s survived the things she has.
Her breath shudders. Just slightly. But I feel it.
"You’re looking at me like you want something," she whispers.
Her words are a challenge. A dare.
My pulse thrums hard against my ribs, but my smirk never falters. "Am I?"
Her lips open, but no sound comes.
I don’t know what possesses me to do it. Maybe it’s the way the candlelight catches the blue of her eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that she saved my life, risked herself when she had nothing to gain.
Or maybe it’s something darker.
My hand shifts, fingers tracing just beneath her jaw, lingering at the delicate line of her throat. I shouldn’t be touching her. I shouldn’t be thinking about how easily I could press my lips to the hollow of her pulse, about the way she hasn’t stepped away.
She does move—just barely, just enough that I think she might pull away.
I tighten my grip.
Not hard. Not demanding. Just enough to make her stay.
Her breath catches. "Rylan?—"
I don’t know what she’s about to say. And I don’t care.
In this moment, I don’t want to listen to her words.
I want to understand why I crave her more than I ever craved Lartina.
I don’t kiss her.
But I don’t step away, either.
The silence stretches, thick with something I don’t want to recognize.
Softly—too softly—I murmur, "You’re not telling me something."
Something by passes on her face and I can’t catch it. What is it? Guilt? Hesitation? Fear?
I hate that I can’t tell.
She swallows, her throat shifting beneath my fingertips. "It’s nothing," she says again.
Another lie. The same one.
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to release her.
She steps back, blinking rapidly, as if clearing something from her mind.
I let her.
But as she moves toward the door, I say, "If you lie to me again, little thief, I won’t be gentle about getting the truth out of you."
She pauses, her back to me.
Without turning, she murmurs, "Neither will I."
The door shuts behind her.
I exhale slowly, running my fingers through my hair.
This was nothing.
It has to be nothing.
If it’s not?—
I don’t know what to do with it.