Page 161 of She Who Holds My Wrath

I feel Cassyr shift, and I don’t need to look to know there’s a question burning in his eyes.

Korithax’s brow lifts slightly—surprise, maybe—but he gives a single nod. Then he turns towards the door.

“Wait,” Cassyr calls.

Korithax pauses, slowly looking back over his shoulder.

“You harm him again,” Cassyr says, each word sharp as broken glass, “And I’ll drive a blade straight through your shoulder.”

For a heartbeat, I think Korithax might actually welcome the challenge. Instead… he barks a dark laugh. The sound is cold and mocking.

“Instead of posturing like a white knight and hovering like a lovesick hound,” he says lazily, “perhaps you should find the courage to tell him how you truly feel.”

The words slice clean through the room. Cassyr goes utterly still, and my stomach drops. Korithax’s gaze flicks briefly to me, amusement glinting in those endless dark eyes, before he steps out into the corridor and pulls the door shut behind him. Silence detonates in his wake.

I turn slowly to see Cassyr is staring at the door like he might tear it off its hinges. Then, as if sensing my attention, he looks at me.

“Back into bed,” he growls, before stalking back over to the desk and continuing with whatever work he was doing before the Child of Ruin stormed in here, and made things even more awkward than they already were.

By the time evening comes, darkness enveloping the room once more, I watch as Cassyr shuffles over to his usual chair.

I tut, rolling my eyes. “You seriously can’t sleep in that chair again. Go back to your room, Cassyr.”

He sits, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head, his loose shirt slightly open at the top to reveal a tanned, tattooed chest.

“Are you healed?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Cass—”

“Are. You. Healed?” he repeats, punctuating every word.

I let out a heavy sigh. “No.”

“Then the chair it is.” He grins sarcastically.

I lie down, letting out an irritated huff as I turn my back to him. There’s only the light of the moon streaming through the window, the occasional flash of red lightning casting a soft glow every now and then.

I huff again, irritation bubbling inside me.

“What is it, Ezra? Why are you huffing like a child?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter.

“See? Behaving like a child. Communicating like a child. I know by my years you’re young, but in your years, aren’t you an adult?” he asks mockingly.

It takes everything in me not to throw my fucking pillow at his head. I still refuse to turn and face him, but I speak anyway.

“You can’t expect me to go to sleep happily knowing you’re curled up in that stupid fucking chair. You won’t leave, so at least get in the fucking bed so I don’t have to worry about your stupid back seizing up because you’ve folded yourself like a pretzel in a chair way too small for you to sleep in!”

My words come out high-pitched and angry, but I don’t care. He’s frustrating me. I’m sick of being stuck in bed. I’m sick of feeling guilty for him stuffing himself in a chair to watch over me like an overbearing idiot.

There’s silence for a long minute and I just roll my eyes, huffing again. Then the small creak of the chair sounds, and the bed dips slightly, the covers rustling as he settles himself beside me.

“Happy?” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” I say with a little too much attitude.

“Brat,” he says quietly. But I still hear it.