Chapter 8 The Blade at Dawn

Linus Kerr was a man ruled by the cold, ticking precision of a clockwork mechanism. But today, for the first time in his disciplined life, the gears jammed.

He didn't wake to the sharp, customary five-o'clock sunlight. He woke to a suffocating, intoxicating weight. He opened his eyes, his vision momentarily hazy, only to find a chaotic halo of silver-grey hair strewn across his pillow. The air smelled of crushed irises and a soft, primal warmth that made his instincts roar.

Lillian Wylde was draped over him like a drowning woman clinging to a spar. One leg was hooked unceremoniously over his waist, and her hand-that delicate, treacherous hand-had strayed beneath the silk lapel of his robe, clutching the bare skin directly over his heart.

Linus went rigid, sucking in a sharp, hissed breath. A live wire had been touched to his spine. His decades of asceticism were currently engaged in a nuclear war against his primal nature. Push her away, Reason screamed. Pull her closer, Instinct growled.

Then, Lillian woke up.

She felt something beneath her palm that was too hard, too hot, and pulsing with a dangerous, rhythmic energy. Her gaze traveled up the defined ridges of a muscled chest, past the slow bob of an Adam's apple, and crashed into a pair of stormy indigo eyes that looked ready to incinerate her.

Silence. A deafening, three-second void.

Then, reality hit. Lillian realized exactly where her leg was resting-and against what.

"AH!" She shrieked, scrambling backward in a blind panic.

CLINK- The Cold-Iron chain snapped taut.

"Oof!" The tension yanked her back before she could escape. She tumbled forward, her lips grazing Linus's jaw in an accidental, breathless caress. This time, there was no mistaking the hard, demanding reality of his body against her thigh.

Lillian's face turned a shade of crimson so deep it looked like she might bleed. She went as stiff as stone. "I... the... the chain..."

Linus closed his eyes, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the bedsheets. He clamped a hand around her waist, pinning her down to end the friction.

"Don't move," he rasped, his voice a haunted, lethal warning. "Unless you want me to exercise my 'Owner's rights' right here and now."

He rolled out of bed with the frantic efficiency of a man escaping a crime scene. Standing with his back to her, he cinched his robe so tight it looked like armor. "Ten minutes. Get yourself together. What happened last night... will not happen again."

Lillian huddled beneath the duvet, watching his broad silhouette. Not happen again? You were the one who told me you weren't going anywhere last night, you bastard.

The breakfast that followed was a masterclass in suffocating silence, mercifully broken by Adjutant Silas.

"Sir," Silas reported, his face a mask of professional concern. "An envoy from General Malles is here. He's demanding to see Miss Wylde. There is a public execution in the square at noon. The General has requested her presence... as a guest of honor."

CLANG. Lillian's fork clattered against her plate. Her face drained of color; the ghost-flames of her nightmare flickered behind her eyes. A "guest of honor." It was a psychological vivisection. Malles wanted to watch her break as she watched her own kind burn.

"I'm not going," Lillian whispered, her fingers clawing at the tablecloth.

"Tell the envoy she will be there," Linus said, his voice as cold as a tombstone.

Lillian snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with the sting of betrayal. "Linus!"

"Silas, clear the subterranean training hall," Linus ignored her, his gaze fixed on some distant, dark point.

Linus's private training hall reeked of stale sweat and rusted iron. He had shed his vest and coat, standing in only a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded, lethal muscles of his forearms.

"Take it," he tossed Lillian a wooden training dagger.

Lillian caught it, her hand trembling. "What is this for?"

"Fear is a physiological response," Linus said, stepping into her personal space. "Racing heart, dilated pupils, paralyzed muscles. It is the same reaction as your magic overload. I am not here to teach you magic, Lillian. I am here to teach you to weaponize your terror."

Without warning, he struck. A lightning-fast sweep of his leg sent her crashing into the padded mat.

"Again. Your mind is screaming 'I'm going to die,' so your body won't move." Linus hauled her back up, his grip merciless.

Once, twice, twenty times. Lillian was thrown until her world spun. Sweat soaked her emerald dress; her hair was a silver bird's nest. Finally, anger began to cannibalize her fear.

"You... you tyrant!" On the next fall, she didn't scramble up. She snatched the dagger and lunged for Linus's calf.

Linus stepped aside, a flash of genuine, dark approval in his eyes. He lunged back, pinning her to the mat. One hand clamped around her throat-careful of his strength-while the other pinned her wrist.

"Listen to me, Lillian." He hovered over her, his sweat dripping onto her cheek. "When you are at the pyre, and you feel the panic coming... don't think about the fire."

He seized her hand, forcing the tip of the wooden dagger against his own heart.

"Think of me. Think of how much you want to rip my heart out of my chest. Turn all that fear into killing intent. Stare at me. Only at me."

His voice was a low, hypnotic rumble. "As long as I am the only thing in your sight, the flames cannot touch you."

He released her and stood, offering a hand. Lillian stared at the palm that had soothed her last night and broken her this morning. A volatile mixture of hatred, dependency, and desire fused within her into a new, iron-like resolve.

She slapped his hand away and hauled herself up. She snatched the dagger, the softness in her eyes replaced by a cold, sharp edge.

"Again," she rasped. "Throw me again, Linus. Until I forget how to feel."