Chapter 6 · A Noose at the Door

His grip on my wrists didn't loosen. It got worse.

"You spill my cup, rogue," Vane said again, low, right against my ear. "You pay in blood."

I could feel every inch of him. The heat rolled off his chest like the fireplace was inside his ribs. Sweat soaked through his shirt and into mine. His pulse hammered against my forearm, way too fast.

"Look at the floor," I said.

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Look at the damn floor, Vane."

His head turned a fraction. The spilled wine had run across the black stone and pooled by the hearth. Where the firelight caught it, something glittered. Fine and gray, like frost, but the room was far too hot for frost.

Silver dust. Ground so fine it vanished in the wine, and anyone who didn't grow up with herb lore would've missed it. I smelled it the second the servant set the cup down. Sweet clove on top, then that sharp metal sting underneath.

He went still.

Not the good kind of still. The kind a wolf goes right before it decides who to bite.

"Who brought it?"