Page 222 of The Sun He Buried

Her pale hair has started escaping its pins. One curl lies across her mouth. Her blue dress is creased where the table caught her thigh, and a bruise is already darkening beneath the fabric.

Her eyes find the silver, then the purple above it, then the rest of me on the floor.

“Oh.”

“That word never does fail you.”

She keeps one hand on the latch. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“You’ve learned.”

Solveih comes one step into the room—

“Leave.”

“I’m staying.”

I stay on the floor.

“I don’t recall offering a choice.”

“You invited me to use a knife and then told me I was pathetic. Your invitations aren’t useful.”

She has no idea what that mouth is doing to me.

Goes straight to my cock, not my temper.

Her hand’s still on the latch behind her.

My hand comes up and rubs at the edge of the silver where it meets my jaw. An old habit, a stupid one to let her see. I lower it.

Too late—she’s stopped arguing and started watching me.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“Remarkable concern, from the woman who told me my invitations were use—“

“The mask.”

I go still. The clever answer’s right there—“always.”

Her gaze moves over the silver. “When you take it off?”

“And when I put it back.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The alternative’s worse.”

She looks at the mask. “Why wear it?”

“So I can walk through my own rooms without feeling what everyone wants while they lie about it.”

Her eyes return to mine. “You hear me anyway.”

There it is.

“Everyone in the Hall heard you today.”