Page 24 of Savage Crown

He knows about her.

My jaw clenches. My breath comes slow, measured.

She saved my life.

Now, I might have to uphold my half of our little deal and save hers.

11

SERAPHINA

The Midnight Den is a labyrinth of stone and shadow.

I’ve spent days wandering its halls, learning its breathing, the way the walls seem to press in, like they have a heartbeat of their own. It’s quieter than it should be, always thick with the implications of secrets not meant to be found.

And tonight, I find one.

The smell of damp earth clings to the air as I press my palm against the cool stone in one of the back corridors. I shouldn’t be here. Rylan made that clear. There are places in this house that belong to him and him alone. Places where the walls whisper his name, where the shadows remember his voice.

But rules have never suited me.

I lean in, inhaling slowly. The corridor is empty, yet the air carries a faint disturbance, something just slightly off. A draft, curling from somewhere it shouldn’t.

A hidden door.

I move my hands along the uneven stone, searching. My fingers find it. A narrow gap, barely visible in the dim light.

I press.

The wall shifts with a soft, grinding sound, revealing a dark, narrow passageway.

My pulse quickens.

I glance behind me once before slipping inside, the cold swallowing me whole. The smell of dust and old stone invades my lungs as I step carefully, my movements light, silent.

Then I hear the voices, low and hushed.

I move toward the sound, the walls pressing tight against me. The passage opens to a hidden alcove, a narrow slit carved between the stone, just wide enough for me to see into the adjacent room.

And there, standing in the glow of candlelight, is Lartina.

Her figure is a sharp silhouette against the flickering flames, her black gown pooling like ink around her feet. She stands near a desk, fingers idly tracing the curved edge of a dagger lying there.

And across from her—a man I don’t recognize.

He is tall, broad-shouldered, with silvered hair and dark elven features that are too sharp, too cruel. A scar runs down his jaw, disappearing beneath the high collar of his tunic.

I still.

Something in my gut tightens, warning me.

I know who he is. The dark elf is famous for all the wrong reasons. His cruelty knows no bounds, and he’s a frequent visitor in the pleasure clubs with the females ending up dead come morning.

Nhilian.

The name slithers through my mind like a curse, heavy with the heaviness of danger.

I barely breathe.

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