There was no demand in the gesture and no indication that he would take hold of her if she refused.
After a moment, she placed her hand in his.
His grip was firm and steady as he helped her rise, and the contact did not feel like a restraint. Once she was standing, Dax released her and walked beside her toward the iron gate.
The lanterns flickered behind them as mist drifted across the garden paths.
“So,” Dax said, deliberately returning the conversation to something ordinary, “when you were human, what was your comfort show?”
Veya glanced at him.
“My what?”
“The television program you watched when everything was terrible and you wanted to avoid thinking about your life. This is important information.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“You are absolutely answering it.”
“No.”
“If you tell me you relaxed by watching true-crime documentaries, I will have to reconsider every generous assumption I have made about you.”
A reluctant laugh escaped her.
“Perhaps I watched cooking shows.”
“You did not.”
“How would you know?”
“You drink black coffee without sugar. There is no joy in you.”
Veya shook her head, but the smile remained as they passed through the gate.
For the first time since waking inside the stronghold, something loosened beneath her ribs. It was neither peace nor safety, and she was not foolish enough to mistake it for trust.
It was simply enough space to breathe, even if breathing was now a habit rather than a necessity.
Chapter 22
The library lay along the corridor leading back toward the eastern guest suite, and Dax paused beside its heavy wooden door before they passed it.
“You wanted to understand the house,” he said. “This is one of the few rooms worth understanding.”
Veya glanced at him.
“Are the others not worth understanding?”
“Most of them contain weapons, arguments, or Rhen.”
“That sounds like the same category three times.”
Dax’s smile appeared quickly and vanished as he pushed open the door.
The hinges complained with a slow, arthritic creak that suggested they had carried centuries of secrets and disapproved of surrendering any more. Warmth and the scent of age moved into the corridor together, carrying paper dust, smoke, wax, and something darker beneath them, like ink that had bled permanently into stone.
Veya followed Dax inside, drawn after him like tidewater answering moonlight, although the ease of that choice unsettled her.
