14. Rylan
14
RYLAN
L oyalty isn’t given. It’s tested.
And Seraphina still has something to prove.
I don’t trust her, not yet. There’s too much about her that doesn’t add up—her boldness, her defiance, the way she watches me like she’s trying to figure out how to dismantle me piece by piece.
So I set the terms. A mission. A test.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Not when I send her into Lord Varash’s estate, where humans don’t leave unscathed. Not when I tell her to extract a name, a single thread of information tied to Nhilian’s growing influence.
Not even when she realizes she might not come back alive.
She simply nods and disappears into the night.
And I should be satisfied.
Except I’m not.
Because hours pass. Then more. And she doesn’t return.
By the time I hear the heavy doors of the Midnight Den swing open, I’m already standing, already bracing myself for what I know is coming.
The stench of blood is thick before I even see her.
Then Seraphina stumbles inside.
Her tunic is torn, fabric clinging wetly to her ribs where blood seeps through in sluggish, uneven patterns. Her lip is split. Bruises bloom along her arms, deep and vicious.
But it’s not the wounds that stop me.
It’s her eyes.
Not broken. Not afraid.
Burning.
She sways slightly, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other clutching a crumpled scrap of parchment.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
The silence thickens.
She tosses the paper onto my desk. The name I wanted.
"Maereth."
I glance at it only briefly before my attention snaps back to her.
"You’re late," I say, voice dangerously calm.
She exhales sharply. "You’re welcome."
Wrong answer.
I move fast before my mind can process my action.
She flinches—but only slightly—as my hands slam against the chair on either side of her, caging her in.
"You barely made it back," I murmur, voice low, measured. "Do you even know how stupid that was?"
She lifts her chin, refusing to shrink beneath my presence.
"I did what you asked," she grits out.
"At what cost?"
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t be furious.
But I am.
Her lips twitch like she’s about to say something cutting, something to piss me off. But then—her balance wavers. I catch her instinctively. Her body leans into mine, just for a breath, just for a second. Just as quickly, she jerks away.
"I'm fine," she mutters.
I exhale sharply, stepping back.
I should let this go.
Instead, my eyes flick downward—and I see the wound on her ribs.
Deep. Sloppy.
I step forward.
She notices.
Her body tenses, but she doesn’t move away.
"Sit," I order.
She hesitates.
"Seraphina." My voice is a blade. "Sit. Down."
She exhales, but this time, she listens.
I move to the desk, retrieving a cloth and a vial of healing salve. When I turn back, she’s watching me warily, like she expects me to strike.
I don’t.
Instead, I kneel before her.
Her breath catches, just slightly.
I ignore it.
Instead, I push her tunic up, revealing the deep gash along her ribs.
She hisses at the contact but doesn’t pull away.
"You’re lucky it’s not worse," I mutter, pressing the cloth against the wound.
"Didn’t feel lucky," she grits out.
I smirk, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. "What happened?"
She exhales sharply. "Varash didn’t like being questioned."
Something cold slithers down my spine.
"He touched you?"
She snorts. "Does throwing me into a wall count?"
Rage.
A slow, simmering heat that shouldn’t be there.
I shouldn’t care.
I really shouldn’t.
But my fingers tighten around the cloth, pressing a little too hard.
She winces.
I ease off immediately.
Damn it.
I shouldn’t be angry.
I should be pleased.
She got the information I wanted. She proved herself.
But instead of satisfaction, all I feel is this.
This seething, restless thing curling in my ribs.
"You don’t go near him again," I say, voice lower than I mean it to be.
She exhales sharply. "Didn’t realize I had a choice."
I lift my eyes to hers.
"You do now."
A beat of silence.
Her fingers curl into fists against her lap. "Why does it matter to you?"
I don’t answer.
I don’t know.
If I admit that, I might never stop.
I finish binding her wound in silence, my movements slower, more careful than before.
Then I rise, turning away, putting distance between us.
"You did well," I say, voice cold. Detached.
She doesn’t move for a long moment. "You don’t mean that." She turns and walks away before I can respond.
I don’t move until the door clicks shut.
Then—only then—do I exhale, pressing my fingers against my temple.
I’m not pissed at her. Not really. I’m pissed at myself. For caring. For sending her on that mission in the first place. For—fuck, I don’t know. I’m just pissed.