Page 122 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Bullshit,” Arabella said flatly. Nyx’s rumble intensified.

Zaraiah’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

“You’re lying.” Arabella took another step forward. Nyx moved with her, perfectly synchronized, a pink-scaled extension of my wife’s will. The dragon’s maw was mere inches from Zaraiah’s face. “Try again.”

The Chair of Whispers swallowed hard.

“Nyx,” Arabella said calmly, not looking at the dragon. “Sit.”

For once—for the first time all evening—Nyx obeyed instantly.

The dragon kept her gaze locked on Zaraiah as she sat, but the immediate threat of violence shifted to something more controlled.

Zaraiah’s throat worked as she swallowed again.

“Answer the question,” I said, finally stepping up beside Arabella. Shadows gathered around us, responding to the barely controlled fury radiating from both of us. “Why are you really here?”

Zaraiah’s gaze flicked between us, calculating. Her eyes kept returning to Nyx, who sat perfectly still except for the slow lash of her tail and the occasional wisp of smoke curling from her nostrils.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. Someone made a move against you”—she nodded at Arabella, carefully avoiding any sudden movements—“in the heart of the God Spire. Any luck with that? Or are you just wandering the halls, hoping inspiration strikes?”

Arabella’s shadows solidified into twin blades, dark and wicked and lethal. She held them loosely at her sides, but the threat was unmistakable. “I don’t care about Syndicate politics or your precious games,” she said. “You tried to humiliate my husband in our own home, in front of witnesses.”

Zaraiah’s smile had vanished completely now. “That was business.”

“And now someone’s tried to kill me”—Arabella’s voice dropped to something deadly as she continued, as if Zaraiah hadn’t even spoken—“and you show up, skulking around in the dark, claiming you’re just ‘curious’?”

She raised her blades. Behind her, Nyx’s tail lashed in agitation. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t skin you and feed you to my dragon.”

The fragment screamed its approval. Yes. Yes. Let her do it. Let her—

And that’s when I realized.

The Shadow King wanted this. Wanted me to stand back and let Arabella commit murder. Wanted us to isolate ourselves, to make enemies of the Syndicate, to burn every bridge until there was nothing left but rage and paranoia and violence.

Wanted me to become exactly what he had been—alone, powerful, and utterly mad.

And we couldn’t afford to kill a Syndicate chair in the God Spire—it would guarantee that the rest of them would try to stab me in the back as soon as I turned toward Solandris, if they weren’t already planning it.

So I did the hardest thing possible.

“Arabella,” I said quietly. “Stand down.”

She didn’t look at me, her eyes still fixed on Zaraiah. “Why?”

I moved closer, carefully, until I stood beside her. Our shoulders barely touched, but I felt her tense at the contact. “Because I’m asking you to.”

That made her glance at me. Just for a second. But it was enough for her to see whatever was written across my face—the barely controlled rage, the calculation, the please trust me that I couldn’t voice aloud.

Her jaw clenched. The shadow blades trembled in her grip. “Kaz—”

“I know.” The words came out rough, layered with everything I couldn’t say in front of our audience. I know she deserves it. I know you want blood. Gods, so do I.

The fragment pulsed with vicious satisfaction but it was no longer dominating my mind.

Arabella held my gaze for a heartbeat longer. I saw the war playing out behind her eyes—fury versus trust, vengeance versus whatever she was reading in my expression. Her fingers flexed on the hilts of her shadow blades.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she let them dissolve back into formless darkness. Nyx made a disappointed sound in her throat.