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He thought he could control her.
Rage so hot burned beneath her fear. It overwhelmed her to the point she could only see red.
“Take. Your hand. Off me,” she said, each word filled with loathing.
Korvel ceased all movement.
The words carried no panic. Only finely honed steel, steady and ready for war.
An emotion flashed across his face then— regret? Horror? A mixture of both?
He released her so fast while she stayed perfectly still.
“Elowynn—” he whispered, lifting his hand again.
She stepped backward before he could touch her again.
Her arm hurt badly and she knew there would be fingerprint bruises there. But she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her rubbing at the soreness.
Korvel looked stricken, his composure fractured. She had never seen this side of him in all the time they had known each other.
“I apologize,” he said quickly. “I did not—”
“Yes,” Elowynn interrupted in a harsh voice. “You did.”
The silence afterward felt glacial.
Korvel ran one hand through his hair, visibly furious with himself now. “You do not understand the kind of attention surrounding you lately.”
“Perhaps not,” Elowynn said coldly, “but that does not give you the right to touch me like that. Ever.”
Korvel opened his mouth to speak again, but Elowynn lifted her uninjured arm before he could speak further.
Starlight spiraled around her palm. Soft blue-white resonance curled between her fingers in slow, luminous ribbons, impossibly bright against the shadows.
The color drained from his face.
“Do not ever try to get close to me again,” she whispered.
Elowynn stepped even further back toward the garden archway, and this time Korvel didn't follow as though he possessed the right.
The resonance faded as she lowered her hand and shoved it hard into the folds of her skirts.
Then she turned away from him entirely and disappeared deeper into the snow-covered gardens without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Love becomes dangerous the moment fear is added to it.”
— Sister Maelin
Caelyn stood half-hidden near one of the upper observatory archways with a stolen glass of expensive alcohol in one hand while the other rested on a railing. He watched her move through the ballroom below, knowing she had been born into this world and forcefully ripped from it.
Silver and blue light shimmered across the crystalline floor beneath her feet while nobles angled themselves toward her whenever she crossed the room.
She was the center of gravity, and everyone was drawn to her. Even the damn Conclave masters kept their attention fixed on her as though waiting to see what she would do or say next.
And through it all, Korvel Thorne remained at her side like the thorn his name suggested.
