Page 21 of Savage Crown

"Rylan." My voice is steady, pressing. "Who was that?"

For a long, breathless moment, he says nothing.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my wrist. I swallow, my breath uneven.

"Why did you do it?" he asks softly.

My pulse stumbles. "Do what?"

His grip tightens—not painful, but enough to feel it.

"Why did you save me?" His voice is lower now, quieter, filled with something I refuse to name.

I wet my lips, forcing myself to stay still.

If I move, I might lean into him.

That would be a mistake.

"I need you alive," I say, keeping my voice flat. "That was the deal, wasn’t it?"

His smirk returns, slow, curling at the edges. But his grip on my wrist lingers a moment longer than it should.

He lets me go.

The air between us shifts.

Something unspoken coils between us—something fragile, something dangerous.

Trust.

Or the closest thing to it.

Rylan exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back to the empty space where the assassin had stood.

"This isn’t over," he murmurs.

I glance at the blood drying against the stone floor, at the lingering scent of poison clinging to the air.

No. It can never be.

10

RYLAN

Blood pools beneath the chair, dark and slick. The stench of it thickens the air, mingling with sweat, fear, and the acrid tang of burnt flesh.

The assassin kneels before me, his arms bound behind the chair with iron chains. He’s slumped forward, his breathing shallow but steady, despite the wound carving a deep slash along his ribs—one I gave him when he tried to run.

Coward. He can never escape me. How dare he made me chase him for hours after his escape? I would have spared him from more suffering if he was nice enough to just sit through the torture.

I pace the dimly lit chamber, my boots dragging faint echoes across the stone floor. The Midnight Den is silent tonight, its halls swallowing sound like a living thing, keeping this moment trapped between shadow and breath.

The assassin hasn’t spoken since I dragged him in.

But he will.

I crouch beside him, fingers wrapping around his jaw, forcing his head up. His mask is gone now, revealing sharp darkelven features—high cheekbones, jet-black skin slick with sweat, lips slightly parted from the pain.

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