Page 26 of Savage Crown

This is about me.

12

RYLAN

Ishouldn’t want her here.

Not in my space, not in my thoughts, and certainly not standing so close that the scent of her—wild, sharp, something that shouldn’t tempt me—clings to the air between us.

But she is.

Seraphina stands by the window of my study, arms folded, eyes distant. The candlelight casts flickering gold over her skin, catching in the loose strands of her dark hair. She’s too still, too lost in thought.

I don’t like it.

I should send her away. I should be thinking of more important things. Like the assassin bleeding out in my dungeons. Like the fact that Nhilian, the man who destroyed my family, is moving pieces I didn’t see until now.

Like Lartina, who I should still crave—who once owned me in ways I never let anyone else.

But Seraphina stands here instead. And for some reason, I don’t want her to leave.

I step forward slowly, my boots soundless against the stone. "You’re quiet."

Her shoulders tense slightly before she turns to face me. "Should I be filling the silence?"

I smirk, leaning against my desk. "Usually, you’re sharper than this. I’m starting to think I’m wearing you down, little thief."

Her gaze flickers over me, calculating. Noticing too much, as always.

"You wish," she mutters, but her usual fire is dim.

I narrow my eyes. Something is wrong.

"Out with it," I say.

She exhales, shaking her head. "It’s nothing."

Lie.

And I don’t like when she lies to me.

I push off the desk, closing the distance between us in three slow steps. She doesn’t move as I stop just before her, close enough warmth of her breath reaches me.

"Try again," I murmur.

She lifts her chin. Defiant. Always.

But I see it now—the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitch. Seraphina is never still unless she’s hiding something.

My hand moves before I think, tilting her face up with two fingers under her chin. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, too soft for someone who’s survived the things she has.

Her breath shudders. Just slightly. But I feel it.

"You’re looking at me like you want something," she whispers.

Her words are a challenge. A dare.

My pulse thrums hard against my ribs, but my smirk never falters. "Am I?"

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