Chapter 7 · The Feral Claim

"One reason," Vane said. His claws rested on the back of my neck like a collar. "Say it."

I couldn't. Every reason I had was either a lie or a knife.

The bedchamber was stupidly hot. Pine coals roared in the hearth. Furs were piled on the bed like a nest. An iron chain ran from the bedpost to the cuff on my wrist. Sweat slid down my spine, and his hand was hotter than any of it.

"Garrick brought a rope to your door," I said. My voice came out thin. "Which means the elders want me dead by morning."

"I heard him."

"So do it. Hang me. That's your thing, isn't it? Cut off whatever's inconvenient."

His grip tightened. Under the fur and iron and woodsmoke I smelled blood. It was his, old and fresh at once. Then a sound came out of his chest. It wasn't a word. It was low and wet, like something dragging itself up out of a pit.

"Don't," he said. "Don't say that tonight."

"Why? Does it bother you?"

He turned me around by the neck.