Page 35 of Broken Star

That’s what he is now.

Blank.

It’s too much—too painful.

So, I reach for the car’s center console, find a song I like, and twist the volume knob all the way up. Anything to drown out the devastation that slams into me every time I hear the flatness of Riven’s voice or see the indifference in his eyes.

A hard bass pounds through the speakers, rattling the frame of the car as it drowns him out.

But even though I like the song, it’s not angsty enough to match the feeling oftrying to keep it together after the man I loved bargained away his emotions for me and then forced me to marry him for political gain.

Same with the next song.

Finally, the third one feels right, and I sit back in mild satisfaction with my choice.

Riven exhales sharply.

A heartbeat later, he reaches over and calmly turns down the music.

His fingers barely brush mine, but even though I rip my hand away, it’s too late. The memory is already flashing through my mind, accompanied by a rush of fury as I see him in the tent with me before the lake trial, dangling my bracelet in front of me while using it toblackmailme.

I need you alive because you’re useful to me.

I want your magic, so therefore, I want you.

There’s power in being useful, Sapphire. Power you’ve barely begun to understand.

And then, the way he pulled me flush against him. Tempting me, telling me toprove to himwhy he wasworking so hard to keep me alive, clearly looking for more than just a kiss.

It’s sick.He’ssick. And the worst part? He never tried to hide it. He was upfront with me about who he was from the beginning, and I ignored it because I felt alone, and because it felt good to be held and loved.

But he didn’t love me. He was using me the entire time.

The version of Riven beside me right now—this is the real him. This is the Riven I would have been seeing all along if I hadn’t been blinded by everything that makes him painfully irresistible to me.

I press my nails into the pads of my fingers, channeling the emotional pain into something physical.

It helps, but only slightly.

“Hate me all you want,” he says evenly, his voice clear over the now-muted song, “but you need to figure out a way to function around me, no matter how irresistibly distracting my presence might be.”

Hate.

He says it like it’s simple. Like it’s a conscious choice. As if I wouldn’t tear this feeling out of my heart if I could—burn every memory of him to ash if it meant I could breathe again.

“Fine,” I grind out. “But that doesn’t mean I have to listen to your voice for the next few hours.”

“Then allow me to provide you with something more engaging.” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, delicate patterns of frost creeping over the leather. “Because the first song you blasted had no lyrical depth. The second was an insult to rhythm. And the third was just… noise.”

I glare at him, even though he was right about the first one.

“Youwouldbe a music snob,” I mutter.

He arches a brow. “I prefer taste over self-inflicted torture.”

He’s more insufferable by the second.

I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at him again.

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