The alcove is too small.
I’m aware of it suddenly, viscerally—the way my body crowds hers, the way the walls press in on both sides, the way her breath comes short and fast and warm against my throat. My hand is still on her arm. I can feel her pulse beneath my fingers, racing too quick, and something in me responds to that rhythm.
Prey response. She’s afraid. That’s all it is.
But it’s not fear making her pupils dilate. Not fear making her skin flush beneath its pallor. And it’s definitely not fear making her stand her ground when any sane person would be cowering.
She’s still looking at me.
Not at the monster. Not at the weapon. At me.
“You haven’t killed me yet.” The words come out steadier than they should. “I assume that means you’re considering my offer.”
“I’m considering whether killing you would cause more problems than it solves.”
“And?”
“Still deciding.”
A ghost of expression crosses her features. Not quite warmth—she doesn’t seem like someone who does warmth—but close. A softening at the corners of her mouth that makes her look younger. Less like a façade wearing a person.
“Take your time.” Resolve hardens at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve been patient this long.”
I should let go of her arm. Step back. Create distance. Every instinct I possess screams that proximity is dangerous—not because she’s a threat, but because she’s different. A puzzle I don’t have a category for.
I don’t step back.
“The modifications.” My voice scrapes rougher than I mean it to. “You understood what they were for. Not just power—independence. Cutting the Matron’s control channels.”
“I noticed.”
“No one else has noticed. Not the ritualists, not the other blood readers. I’ve been working on them for three years.”
“Maybe you’re not as subtle as you think.” She tilts her head, mimicking my earlier gesture without seeming to realize it. “Or maybe I’m better at reading blood than anyone else here.”
“Which is it?”
“Both, probably.”
That flicker of expression again—the one that’s not quite a smile but wants to be. It produces a strange reaction in my chest. A tightening. A heat that has nothing to do with the power flowing through my channels. I don’t like it. I don’t understand it.
I don’t want it to stop.
“If I agree to this.” I force the words out. “If I let you help. What do you want in return?”
“The Matron dead. The clan destroyed. The bloodline system ended.”
“That’s not payment. That’s shared goals.”
“Then maybe that’s enough.” She shifts her arm in my grip—not pulling away, just adjusting. Her skin is warm against my palm. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I know what trust means in this place. I’m asking you to use me, the same way I’m planning to use you.”
“And if using you means getting you killed?”
“Then I die doing what matters.” No hesitation. No fear. “Better than dying as another piece of the machine.”
The words hit harder than they should. I’ve killed people who begged for their lives. I’ve watched stock weep and plead and offer anything—everything—if I’d just let them go. None of it ever moved me.
This woman isn’t begging. She’s demanding.
