Page 58 of The Shadow King's Brother

He likes that I’m here.

And I have no idea what’s more terrifying: the poison bleeding through my veins…

…or the fact that he might want to keep me.

But then... a flicker of an idea sparks in my head. I have to use this. His obsession. Maybe I can overman him when he’s not focused…

My limbs feel heavy, but my mind races. This is my chance to turn the tables.

I push myself off the floor, desperation lending me a strength I didn’t know I had. I charge, hoping to catch him off guard.

But he’s too fast.

In a blink, he’s on me. His hand shoots out to grab my wrist, pinning me down against the cold stone floor with terrifying ease. The side wound flares up in agony as the poison spreads. The pain almost makes me faint. Shit. I gasp, but my attempt to break free is futile.

He straddles me, the weight of him pressing down, dominating. I can’t move. My chest heaves with each shallow breath, and my eyes burn with frustration.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he whispers, his breath too close, warm against my skin like a brand I can’t escape. His voice is smooth, almost affectionate, like he’s savoring this moment, drawing it out to watch me squirm.

“This,” he continues, trailing a slow glance down my face, “is the part where you realize I’m the new boss and you’re just a toy in my hands, and you will bend to my will. One way or another.”

His fingers brush a strand of hair from my cheek, a touch too gentle for the weight of his words. A shiver runs through me, my body’s instinct fighting the stillness I force myself to maintain. He watches, eyes dark, pupils blown wide—not with anger, but with something worse. Something hungry.

“Get. Off. Me.”

“You don’t even see it yet,” he murmurs, tilting his head as if studying me, as if I’m some intricate puzzle he’s piecing together. “You think Elio is the one who always comes for you, the one who can’t stay away?” He chuckles, low and knowing. “Look at me, Galli. I’m here. I’m the one who’s always watching, always waiting. The difference between him and me?” His lips curve into a slow smirk. “He wants to save you. I want to keep you.”

His fingers trail to my chin, tipping it up just slightly, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his. “You’ll learn soon enough,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to fight so hard. There are worse things than belonging to me.”

I let the silence stretch, forcing myself to breathe evenly. His touch is light, a mockery of tenderness. He wants me to be afraid. He wants me small.

I refuse to give him that.

I lift my chin slowly, just enough to shift his grip from control to mere contact. Just enough to show him I’m not his toy.

“You really think I’m yours to keep?” My voice comes out steady, sharper than I expect. “That I’ll just sit here, bat my lashes, and thank you?”

His smirk deepens like I’ve said exactly what he wanted to hear.

“You’ll come around,” he murmurs, fingers grazing my jaw. “You’ll see.”

I hold his gaze, keep my body still, though everything inside me screams to move—to fight. “There’s something you don’t understand, Eddie.” My voice lowers a thread of iron beneath the words. “Elio’s not the only one who doesn’t let go.” I lean in just enough that he has to either move back or accept the challenge. “I’ll get out of here. And when I do? You’ll regret ever thinking you could own me.”

His fingers tighten—just for a second, just enough for me to feel the snap of control fraying beneath his skin. He likes this. My fire, my fight. It fuels him. But I see something else there, too—frustration.

Because deep down, he knows I’m not afraid of him.

Not in the way he wants.

I lock eyes with him, searching for any weakness. There’s nothing.

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the concrete floor as he steps back, exhaling like he’s bored of the game. Like my resistance is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“If you won’t bend,” he says, almost lazily, “then I’ll have to kill you.”

His fingers catch my chin, squeezing my cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up. My skin burns where he touches—not from pain, but from the sheer wrongness of it. His other hand trails along the exposed skin of my hip in a slow, deliberate drag that makes my stomach twist.

I freeze.

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