Page 24 of His Emotional Support Snack

Vesper whines, trotting after us, his massive head bumping against my hip in silent question.

I ignore the beast. We cross the threshold of the bedroom. The air inside is cool and sterile. I drop to my knees near the ornate wooden armoire, dragging the bottom drawer open. My hands shake as I rifle through the folded silks, searching for the small, crude leather pouch I hid weeks ago.

My fingers brush the rough hide. I pull the bag out, the few stolen silver Ipia coins clinking against the dried taura meat wrapped in napkins. It is not enough to bribe a smuggler. It is barely enough to buy passage to the lower harbor. But we have to move. Tonight.

"Mama?" Kalan touches my shoulder, his small voice trembling. He senses the frantic, feral energy radiating from my skin.

"Pack your favorite stones." I shove the pouch into the deep pocket of my gown. "We are playing a game. We have to hide very well tonight."

A shadow eclipses the sunlight streaming through the glass doors.

The temperature drops. The air thickens, saturated with the crackling static of raw magic.

I freeze, my knees still pressed into the woven rug. I slowly turn my head.

Zuirvih leans against the doorframe.

His midnight-blue velvet tunic absorbs the ambient light. The gold epaulets resting on his broad shoulders gleam with a harsh, unyielding polish. He looks immaculate. The terrifying, arrogant master of Vhoig. His eyes scan the room, taking in my position on the floor, the open drawer, the frightened child clutching my skirt.

His face is a mask of perfect, flawless ash-grey. Unreadable. Cold.

"You are agitated, Esmeralda." He steps into the room, his boots soundless.

"I am fine." I rise to my feet, shoving the drawer shut with the heel of my boot. I step in front of Kalan, widening my stance, defaulting to the protective barrier I maintain constantly. "The heat in the courtyard gave me a headache."

"A headache." He repeats the word, a low, mocking hum vibrating in his chest.

He crosses the space between us. I brace for the violence. For the magic to wrap around my throat and choke the life from my lying lungs. For the Miou guards to storm the room and drag me to the torture pits.

He stops inches from my face.

He does not reach for my throat. He does not summon the guards.

Instead, he raises his gloved hand. His long fingers cup the side of my face. The leather is warm, the touch surprisingly gentle, a jarring contrast to the cold fury I expect. His thumb brushes the curve of my lower lip, tracing the shape with slow, agonizing deliberation.

"He is deeply attached to you." Zuirvih’s voice drops, the lethal purr replaced by a quiet, raw sincerity that shatters my defenses. He shifts his gaze to Kalan, peering around my hip. "He looks at you as if you hung the stars in the sky. As if you are the very center of his universe."

My breath hitches. A tear escapes, tracking a hot line down my cheek, catching against his leather glove. "I am the only thing he has."

"A fierce devotion." Zuirvih shifts his attention back to my eyes. The violet irises glow, piercing straight through the fragile armor I wear. "A loyalty that defies biology. Defies logic. It is a rare, beautiful thing to witness in this rotting city."

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He knows. He holds the slave certificate proving my deception, yet he traces my lip with the obsessive, possessive touch of a lover.

The realization hits me like a painful physical blow, stealing the air from the room.

I am packing a bag to run from the monster holding my leash, but the true terror is not his wrath. The true terror is the aching, hollow pressure blooming in my own chest at the thought of leaving him. The late-night feedings, the shared blood, the desperate kisses against the marble mantelpiece—it is no longer a transaction of survival. The mask has fused to my skin. I care for the dying god of the Khuzuth.

"I belong to him." I whisper, the truth slipping out, a desperate plea for him to understand why I lied.

"Yes." Zuirvih drops his hand, his expression hardening back into the cold, untouchable mask of the Deceiver. "You do. But the question remains, little rat... who do you belong to?"

He turns and walks out of the bedroom, leaving the question hanging in the sterile air, and the leather pouch of stolen coins burning a hole in my pocket.

16

ZUIRVIH

The parchment is coarse, gritty with the dried salt and stagnant moisture of the harbor district.