Page 78 of Embers of Ruin

His eyes remain on me, as always. I’m the only person he gives his undivided attention to no matter who is around. What makes my stomach churn is the fact that he’s smiling.

Not in a cruel way. No, he doesn’t look cruel at all. He smiles just enough to let me know that he is pleased.

Pleased.

After I nearly flattened his Lieutenant against a tree. A fresh wave of irritation surges through me. “Stop looking so smug, Thorin.”

“Why? I am extremely pleased with you, Lyra.”

“Yes, I can tell. But why?”

“You finally stopped trying to make your magic polite.”

I stare at him, horrified. “I just threw Mazelle across the garden.”

He waves a hand as if that doesn’t matter. “She has endured worse.”

Mazelle’s glare suggests she might make me endure worse later.

Great, another reason to sleep with my eyes open tonight. This day has been full of surprises. I’m ready to go to my chambers, because I don’t want Thorin poking around my mind again.

“You’re impossible,” I snap, voice shaking now for entirely different reasons. “You shoved yourself inside my head, found something I didn’t even know was there, scared me half to death, and now you are standing there looking smug because I reacted?”

His smile fades, but the intensity does not. “You did not simply react. You defended yourself, Lyra.”

“I attacked her.” My voice shakes as I look at him, eyes welling with tears. “I swore years ago that I would never use my magic to harm others.” Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks but I hold them back. I refuse to cry in front of everyone. Especially Mazelle.

I don’t understand why I’m so upset about this—I don’t even know why I made that oath to myself. Maybe Mara made me swear it? All I know is that it’s important. And I just threw a woman into a fucking tree.

“You protected what something in you believed was threatened. That’s called defense, Lyra. It was beautiful.”

“That’s a very elegant way to excuse violence.”

His gaze darkens. “Do you think violence is always wrong?”

The question is too sharp—too close to something. I don’t want a lesson in morality from the Shadow King. I don’t want him asking questions that make me think of Elvora, children with fevers, and the dagger I once held to Onyx’s throat because fear has always been easier than trust.

I step back.

“I think you enjoy pushing people until they break.”

“No,” he says. “I enjoy watching people discover they do not break easily.”

I hate that answer, and I hate him. I hate the fact that I let him touch my body—let myself be vulnerable with him last night. I’m so angry, and I need a release. And right now, I want to release my anger on Thorin. If there was ever a time to kill him, now would be it. I hate everything so much that I move before I think.

I lunge for him.

No magic. No plan. Just anger, embarrassment, and the desperate need to wipe that knowing look from his face. Thorin lets me come. That’s the first thing I realize. He could stop me with shadows, perhaps even a mere thought. He could move away before I reach him—I know he’s incredibly fast. He could command the guards or Mazelle or the earth itself for all I know. Instead, he remains where he is as I close the distance between us.

My fist flies toward his jaw but he catches my wrist. Of fucking course he does. He’s ungodly fast. I twist the way Mazelle taught me, stepping into his grip instead of pulling away, and for the first time, surprise flickers across his face. The sight is satisfying enough to make me reckless. I drive my knee toward his thigh, but he shifts, shadows curling around his leg like armor. I spin under his arm, aiming for his ribs, but he’s no longer there.

A shadow slips him aside before my strike can land. The loyal hounds protecting their monster.

I stumble, recover, and whirl on him. He watches me, eyes bright now, no longer cold with distance but alive with something that makes my pulse race.

“Again,” he says.

The word snaps through me and I attack. This time he moves with me, not away. His shadows are not separate from him in motion. They are extensions of thought, muscle and instinct. One curls around my ankle and releases before tripping me. Another catches my wrist and redirects rather than restrains. They move like dark ribbons in the corner of my vision, guiding the fight, controlling the space, always close enough to remind me he could end this whenever he chooses.