“That wasn’t an isolated incident.” He picked up his spoon again, continuing to eat as if discussing the weather. “My mother had very specific ideas about discipline. About teaching lessons that would…stick. The kind that involved spending months at a time chained in the basement of my own home when I refused to obey.”
Her stomach churned at the idea. Or maybe that was the bug meat she was eating.
His tone remained level, almost clinical. “No furniture, no company, no comfort. Scraps pushed through a slot in the door when she remembered I existed. Walled up like I was alreadyentombed. No blood to sustain me. Sometimes, a year would pass before she decided I’d learned my lesson.”
The casual way he said it—a year. She’d known his family were cruel, had seen glimpses of the psychological warfare they waged against each other. But this was something else entirely. This was systematic torture. “Raziel…”
“The point,” he continued, taking another bite of the stewed meat, “is that material goods are simply a sign of comfort. Of power. To be enjoyed when they are earned and deserved.” He met her gaze, his red eyes reflecting the dim light from the single bulb overhead. “Right now, we have none, because we deserve none. We lost.”
There was no self-pity in his voice, no anger at their current circumstances. Just a matter-of-fact acceptance that made her chest ache in ways she didn’t want to examine.
“We’ll have to fight to regain everything we once had.” He jabbed his spoon back into the bowl of food. “We take it all back by force. And when we do, when we’ve earned it through blood and cunning and sheer refusal to die, then we’ll deserve luxury again.”
She studied his face in the uncertain light. “That’s a very pragmatic way to see defeat.”
“It’s the only way to see it and remain sane. If that’s what I am.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl. “My mother taught me many things, Nadi. Most of them were lessons in pain. But she also taught me that pining over past comfort is the fastest way to ensure you never reclaim it.”
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the warehouse settling around them. Somewhere beyond their makeshift walls, she could hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional footstep on metal flooring.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” she said finally.
“Only one thing? How refreshingly brief.”
She ignored his jab and rolled her eyes. “When you spoke to Kassa today. You told her that from a purely practical standpoint, you were an improvement over Mael and Lana.”
“I did. I am.”
“You let her assume you’d changed your mind about enslaving the fae. Or killing them all.” She set down her spoon, giving him her full attention. “Have you?”
Raziel’s smile was slow, but sharp. “Changed my mind? No, little murderer. I haven’t.”
The admission should have shocked her. Instead, she felt only a familiar weariness. More games. More manipulation. “So you lied to them.”
“I didn’t lie. I let Kassa assume whatever she wanted to assume.” Raziel’s tone was perfectly reasonable. “I told her the truth—I am an improvement over my siblings. I don’t want all fae dead.” He paused, tilting his head. “I don’t think Mael does either, for that matter. Dead slaves produce no labor, after all.”
“But you’re happy to let the Iltanis believe what they want to believe.”
“Of course.” He seemed genuinely puzzled by her concern. “They needed to hear that I wasn’t planning their immediate extermination. I needed their cooperation. Everyone got what they wanted.”
“Everyone except the truth.”
“The truth,” Raziel said through a long sigh, “is that I intend to rule this world. Everything else are simply…details to be negotiated later.”
She felt the familiar knot of concern forming in her stomach. This was the Raziel she’d first encountered—the one who saw people as chess pieces, who could justify any deception if it served his larger goals. “You’re playing them.”
“Yes. And so should you. You can’t trust them.”
At least he wasn’t pretending otherwise.
Seeing her expression, he set aside his empty bowl and moved closer to her on the narrow mattress. His hands were gentle as he cupped her face, thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones. “Nadi. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she met his gaze.
“Did you mean your words earlier? When you told me you loved me?”
The question caught her off guard. “Yes. I meant them.”
“And I meant mine.” His voice was soft, intimate in a way that made her chest tight. “I love you, Nadi. More than I thought possible. More than I ever wanted to.”
