21. Rylan
21
RYLAN
I let her go.
Because I have to.
Seraphina disappears down the hall, her silhouette swallowed by the flickering torchlight. She doesn’t look back. Not once.
And yet, I can still feel her.
The scent of her lingers in the bedroom—smoke, blood, and something wilder beneath it. Something sharp, alive, intoxicating.
I close my eyes. Inhale slowly.
And curse myself for letting her in.
The firelight flickers against the walls, shadows curling at the edges of my vision. My jaw clenches, my fingers tightening against the armrest of my chair.
She was too calm.
Too unshaken.
Most people beg when accused of treachery. They plead, cry, throw themselves at my feet.
Not Seraphina.
She met me head-on, her defiance burning through my accusation like steel against flint.
"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need a blade."
She had said it like a promise. Like a warning.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
I don’t know if she was lying.
She got too close, too fast. Slipped beneath my defenses like a well-placed dagger.
I thought I was the one pulling the strings. Thought I was the one setting the rules of this game.
But what if I was wrong?
What if I’ve let her play me instead?
A slow exhale.
I shouldn’t care.
I should end this now.
It would be easy—one order, one command, and she’d be eliminated before sunrise.
Before she can do any more damage.
Before she can ruin me.
I rise from my chair, pacing toward my chair. The parchment Lartina sent me still sits where I left it, the edges slightly curled from where my fingers pressed into them.
A message meant to divide. A game she’s played before.
I know what she wants.
To drive a wedge between me and Seraphina.
And yet—I still can’t ignore the question festering in my mind.
What if she’s right?
What if Seraphina is the trap I never saw coming?
I pour myself a drink. The dark elven wine slides down my throat like fire, burning against my resolve.
My fingers twitch around the glass.
There’s only one way to be sure.
I have to push her.
I have to break her.
If Seraphina is truly loyal, then she’ll survive whatever I throw at her.
And if she isn’t?
Then I’ll know exactly what to do.
—
The hours slip by in silence.
I try to lose myself in work, in ledgers and coded messages, in the web of secrets and transactions that keep the Midnight Den alive.
But my mind keeps circling back to her.
With the way she looked at me tonight.
Not with fear. Not with guilt.
With something darker.
Something hungry.
As if she was just as furious as I was.
As if she was just as tempted.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like that I still feel the ghost of her breath against my skin, the way her lips parted when I grabbed her chin, the way she didn’t look away.
It should have been fear.
Instead, it was a challenge.
I down the rest of my drink and slam the glass onto the desk, ignoring the way my pulse refuses to settle.
The Midnight Den is never truly silent.
Even at this hour, I can hear the faint sounds of movement from the lower halls—the shifting of steel, murmured voices, the rustling of parchment as deals are made in the dark.
I should be down there, making sure my network holds steady, ensuring that my world doesn’t unravel while I waste time thinking about a human who shouldn’t matter.
Instead, I find myself moving toward the door.
My steps are slow. Measured. As if I don’t know where I’m going.
But I do.
Of course, I do.
My feet carry me toward the hall where she sleeps.
The space where I’ve kept her caged.
Mine, but not mine.
Owned, but never tamed.
I reach her door before I can talk myself out of it.
I should leave.
I should turn around.
I should?—
The door is slightly ajar.
I go still.
A moment of hesitation. Before I can think about it, I push it open.
She’s asleep.
Or at least, she was.
Her breathing is uneven, her body curled on the too-small cot, one arm thrown over her forehead. The dim light of the lantern casts golden shadows across her skin, tracing the bruises she still carries from the mission I sent her on.
I should feel satisfied.
She survived.
She proved herself.
But all I feel is restless.
All I see is the way her lashes flutter, the way her lips part as she exhales softly?—
And I know.
I should not be here.
Not like this.
Not when I’m still drowning in suspicion, in anger, in the slow, rotting weight of my own desire.
I step back slowly.
Then another.
Then her voice cuts through the silence.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
My breath catches.
She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t opened her eyes.
But she’s awake.
She’s been awake.
She knew I was standing here.
Watching her.
I clench my jaw. “Go back to sleep, Seraphina.”
Her lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smirk curving at the edges. “Not until you do.”
A challenge.
Like she knows exactly why I’m here.
Like she’s daring me to cross the line we both know is already ruined.
I grip the corner of the door.
I should leave.
I need to leave.
If I don’t?—
If I let this pull between us win?—
Neither of us will walk away unscathed.
The silence stretches too long, too charged.
Then—I exhale, stepping back into the hall.
And this time, I don’t look back.
If I do?—
I won’t be able to stop myself.