Page 7 of Savage Crown

Still, I force a smirk. “Yet here you are, still listening.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. He releases me, and I step back before I can do something foolish.

Like lean into the warmth of his touch.

Rylan turns his attention back to the satchel, pulling the parchment free. His expression darkens as his eyes scan the contents. He looks genuinely surprised.

I watch him carefully. “So? Is it worth your protection?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer.

He looks at me, something unreadable flashing behind his gaze.

“You stole something that should not exist.” His voice is softer now, but no less dangerous.

My stomach tightens. “Then I suppose you should keep me alive long enough to tell you why.”

Silence.

A slow, sharp smile.

“Very well, little thief.” His voice drips with amusement, but there’s something dark curling at the edges, something that makes my pulse stutter. “I suppose I’ll keep you. For now.”

4

RYLAN

I’ve always known that power has a scent. Fear has one too. But desperation?

Desperation smells like blood and sweat, like the sharp tang of breath stolen in fear. It smells like her.

Seraphina.

She sits in my chair like she belongs there, like she hasn’t just bargained for her life in a den of vipers. A human in the heart of a dark elf city, holding stolen knowledge she doesn’t yet understand. She has no idea the kind of game she’s playing.

And yet, she plays it well.

I watch her, this little thief with her head held high, as though she’s already won. It’s almost amusing.

I roll the stolen parchment between my fingers, feeling the delicate texture of aged vellum. The seal—Lartina’s seal—glares up at me like a specter of the past, a reminder that I’ve been played before.

Not this time.

"You're either very brave," I murmur, trailing my thumb along the parchment’s edge, "or very stupid."

Seraphina's lips twitch. "Maybe both."

I lean against the desk, close enough that I see the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes, the subtle tremor in her hands. She’s barely holding herself together. A wounded animal, pushed into a corner, forced to snarl to keep from breaking.

I wonder how much further I can push her before she snaps.

“Tell me something, little thief.” My voice is smooth, laced with quiet menace. “How does a human—a slave—come into possession of something that should not exist?”

“Haven’t we already talked about this?” she mutters back.

I smirk. “Perhaps I’m unsatisfied with your answer.”

Her fingers curl against her thighs. “Luck.”

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