Page 149 of The Shattered Rite
But the blood didn’t want to leave him.
His knuckles scraped against the basin’s edge.
The water swirled pink.
He scrubbed harder.
When he finally looked up, his reflection stared back at him.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Lips drawn tight.
Not the assassin they’d trained. Not the weapon his father had forged.
Something fractured.
She cried for him.
Not for Malric.
For Silas.
And the worst part was—he understood why.
Silas had touched her gently. Spoken softly. Silas had stood beside her like a shield. Had given her safety.
Malric had only ever given her reasons to fear.
But she wasn’t afraid of him.
That’s what ruined him most.
She should be afraid now.
He pressed his hands flat to the basin’s cold stone, breathing shallow, staring down at the blood-swirled water.
His thoughts kept returning to her.
What she’d looked like on the floor, kneeling in the blood, blind and broken, and still—still—stronger than him.
And all he could think was: I could have been the one to catch her.
He could have knelt beside her. Lied. Said he’d found Silas too late. That he’d tried to save him.
She would’ve believed him.
She’d have leaned on him.
Trusted him.
Needed him.
And the thought of it hollowed him out.
He dragged a hand through his hair, shaking now. His composure cracking like glass.
He should go to her.
Right now.
