Page 33 of His Emotional Support Snack

I step directly in front of Esme, eclipsing Zatori's view of her entirely. My shoulders shield her from the sickly green glow of his magic. The restraint snaps.

Purple static erupts across my knuckles. The raw, violent hum of magic warps the very air between us, smelling of storm-charged iron and winter frost. The cobblestones beneath our boots crack, spiderwebbing outward in a jagged array as the atmospheric pressure crushes downward. The obsidian fountain nearby groans, the stone splintering under the invisible, crushing weight of my fury.

"Take another step toward her, Zatori, and I will melt the flesh from your bones." The mocking purr vanishes, replaced by a guttural, vibrating promise of slaughter.

The Deceiver's shadows rise from the ground, creeping up the legs of the Serpent guards, preparing to snap their ankles and drag them into the earth. The air turns into a suffocating vacuum.

Zatori measures the raw, stabilized power radiating from my chest. He weighs the cost of open warfare in his own courtyard. He knows he cannot match a fully restored Khuzuth lord in direct combat. The green magic flickers, retreating back into his core. He raises a clawed hand, signaling his guards to stand down.

"The Tagnadaet fortune will return to its rightful master soon enough," Zatori hisses, taking a slow step backward into the gloom. "A human's blood is a fragile shield, nephew. It can be spilled just as easily as it is drank. It cannot protect you forever."

The elder lord melts back into the estate, his guards following like obedient vipers disappearing into the tall grass.

I do not release the tension in my muscles until the courtyard is clear of his sickly resonance. I turn, grabbing Esme by the elbow, and guide her the rest of the way to the carriage.

Jarek pulls the heavy wooden door open. We step up into the velvet-lined interior, the door slamming shut behind us, sealing us in the dim, enclosed space. The carriage lurches forward instantly, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding a rapid, jarring rhythm against the stones as we speed away from the Serpent stronghold.

Tense silence fills the cabin.

The threat of civil war hangs over us, a guillotine waiting to drop. Zatori will not rest. He will marshal his forces, bribe the city guards, and look for any crack in the defenses of my estate. The game of politics is over. The bloodshed is imminent.

I look at Esme. She sits stiffly on the opposite bench, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes tracking the flickering gas lamps passing by the carriage windows. She played her part flawlessly. She signaled the poison, staring down the Khuzuth women without a tremor of fear.

I reach across the narrow gap between the benches.

I grab her by the waist and pull her roughly across the space.

She gasps, tumbling forward as I settle her directly onto my lap. She goes willingly, her knees straddling my thighs, her hands coming up to clutch the lapels of my armored tunic. She buries her face into the curve of my neck, her rapid, frantic breaths warming my skin.

My arms lock around her, a vice grip pressing her flush against my chest. I bury my face in her dark hair, inhaling the clean, grounding scent of rain and earth. The adrenaline burns away, leaving only the fierce, terrifying possessiveness that rules my restored heart. I hold her tight enough to bruise, needing the physical proof that she is secure, that Zatori’s venomous gaze is miles behind us.

She trembles, her fingers curling into the velvet of my collar. "He knows."

"Let him know." I press a fierce, lingering kiss to her temple. "Let him bring his assassins and his Serpent lords. I will turn them all to ash."

I raise my fist, knocking twice on the wooden partition separating the cabin from the driver’s seat.

A small sliding panel opens. Commander Jarek’s eyes appear in the gap.

"My lord."

"Double the perimeter guard immediately upon our return," I command, my voice a low, lethal hum vibrating against Esme’s chest. "Post the elite unit inside the western wing. Barricade the lower courtyards. No one crosses the estate boundaries without my explicit authorization."

"We are preparing for a siege, my lord?"

"We are preparing for an execution." I stare out the carriage window at the sprawling, rotting city of Vhoig. "If a shadow moves out of turn near the Tagnadaet walls, slaughter it."

The panel slides shut. The carriage races through the night, carrying us toward a war that will tear the city apart. I tighten my grip on the human in my arms, resting my cheek against her hair. The world outside the carriage can burn, so long as she remains safely anchored to my chest.

21

ESME

The grinding metallic shriek of iron barricades scraping across stone floors becomes the new heartbeat of the Tagnadaet estate.

For the past twenty-one days, the silence of Vhoig has fractured, replaced by the relentless, suffocating drumbeat of impending war. Lord Zatori stopped hiding in the shadows of his Serpent faction. He struck openly at the Tagnadaet trade routes in the lower harbor, burning warehouses to the ground. He paid the city guards to turn a blind eye as his assassins picked off Zuirvih's lesser allies in the dead of night. The high council watches from their gilded towers, waiting like starving vultures to see which warlord will emerge from the ash.

We are trapped in a siege of our own making, sealed behind the towering obsidian walls of the estate.