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“Something you find amusing, mi umbrae regina?” Malakar’s low voice curled like smoke into Elyria’s pointed ears.

She shook her head, like doing so might also shake off the dread she felt every time the dark sorcerer addressed her as such. His queen of shadows. She hated when he called her that. She was not a queen. And she was absolutely, definitely, categorically not his.

Elyria’s hand twitched at her side as she resisted the urge to touch the faint crescent-shaped scars hidden under her hair at the side of her neck. “Of course not, my liege,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice so thick, it made the girl, still lingering by the door, gasp. “And was that really necessary?” Elyria gave a mocking snap of her fingers before rubbing at her sternum. “You could have just asked nicely. Manners will get you everywhere, you know.”

“I appreciate that after weeks of this, you have managed to keep that sharp tongue. Despite losing”—Malakar’s gaze flicked to the blank space over Elyria’s shoulders—“other things.”

The spark of fight in Elyria snuffed out.

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” she said, hopping up onto the table.

He arched an eyebrow, and not for the first time, Elyria balked at the familiarity and foreignness of the movement. Malakar looked just like Lord Church—like Varyth Malchior. And yet he also . . . did not.

He had the same face, the same dark hair streaked with shocks of gray around his temples. But there was something more about him. Something other. The pallor of his skin, a touch paler. The hook of his nose, a bit more severe. The rasp of his voice, just that much deeper.

And then there were his eyes.

Those formerly amber irises, the same color that shone from Tenny’s face, had turned a cold, cruel black.

Well, mostly. Every now and again, Elyria thought she saw a glimpse of that amber, and⁠—

“You are surprisingly cooperative today,” Malakar said.

“I’m cooperative every day,” she grumbled, leaning back until she was lying flat upon the table. Elyria didn’t mind this part as much. Didn’t mind getting the chance to look up through that window cut into the ceiling.

It was the only time she got to see the sky.

The only time she was served the visual reminder that the world out there still existed. That it kept turning. And some days, like today, when they brought her here right at midday, with the sun high, beaming through and warming the skin on her face, it was almost, almost, almost like she could feel him.

She should have buried the flood of emotion stirring in her gut. Should have slammed it back down into that box, like every other time. She should have put her emotionless mask back on, so she could get through what she knew was coming next.

She didn’t.

She languished in it instead.

Her hand twitched again, her palm longing to touch the soul-bonded mark lying under the loose periwinkle hair pooling on her shoulders. Fuzzy memories flew through her mind—a delightful pierce of pain, a glowing chest, a heated kiss. Moments stolen, too brief.

It was utterly unfair how few of them they’d had together.

“Mmm, lately that may be true,” said Malakar, snapping Elyria’s attention back like she had been doused in ice water. “Yet your cooperation does not appear to be getting us anywhere.”

“Not for lack of trying,” she muttered.

“So you claim. But if that is the case, why do you still hoard my power?”

“Don’t you think I would have returned it a hundred times over by now if I could? You think I want it?” Even as she said the words, though, Elyria couldn’t stop the guilt poking through her ribs at the lie. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it. It was her power as much as it was his. But still, if forced to make the choice . . .

“You think I want to keep doing this?” she continued. With a rough, jerky movement, she rolled up the long, cream-colored sleeves of her sheath, exposing the skin of both forearms.

Bare skin. Clean skin. Unmarred and unscarred.

Now.

But it had taken two full days after their last session together for her skin to heal. Two days of nonstop visits from a human saint to mend the wounds Malakar’s darksteel instruments had inflicted. And the healing process had been almost more painful than what the sorcerer had done to cause the wounds in the first place.

“Yes, well, how am I to truly know? I admit I find you rather . . . perplexing. Perhaps you are a masochist. Why else would you have been so willing to come with me in the first place?” He paused. Furrowed his brow. Pursed his lips. And when he started speaking again, Elyria was quite sure the words weren’t directed at her anymore.

“Why would a fairy whore sacrifice herself for a human? There is something in the back of my mind, like a voice, the softest whisper, telling me there is more to the picture than what I saw that day. Than what I see now.”