“I made a decision.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
“Did you feel sorry for me?”
His mouth curled without humor.
“Do not turn it into kindness.”
The answer struck harder than denial.
Veya looked down at her hands. Her skin was too pale and unmarked where cuts and bruises should have remained. Her fingers looked familiar, yet nothing about the body attached to them felt like hers.
“I didn’t ask you to save me.”
“No.”
“You chose anyway.”
“Yes.”
No apology.
No excuse.
Only the brutal certainty of what he had done.
Veya’s fear shifted.
Not into acceptance.
Into anger.
She shoved herself upright and moved toward him before she understood what she intended to do.
“Stay on the bed,” Rhen warned.
“No.”
He stepped into her path.
Veya shoved him.
The unexpected force shifted him half a step—not enough to hurt, only enough to surprise.
For one fraction of a second, Leena’s dried blood against his cuff drew his attention downward.
Veya used it.
She ran.
The guest-room door struck the wall as she tore into the corridor.
Cold marble hit her bare feet.
Candlelight fractured across her vision. Every scent arrived sharpened beyond reason—wax, smoke, old wood, medicinal herbs, and the metallic trace of blood embedded in the stronghold’s stones.
