Chapter 29 · The Blood Feast Mask

"Put it on, or I’ll carve the mask into your skin myself."

Silas didn't look at me. He was adjusting the cuff of his black suit, his voice flat and dangerous. On the vanity lay a mask—obsidian, jagged, and cold. It wasn't a costume. It was a statement. A mark of the Black Ridge's highest caste, and it felt like a muzzle.

I stared at the mask, then at him. "I'm not a puppet, Silas. You can't just dress me up and parade me around like a trophy you won at a rigged auction."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were like ice hitting a hot pavement. In one blur of motion, he was across the room. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, not choking, but guiding me forward with a pressure that made my breath hitch. He leaned in, his chest brushing my shoulder, his scent—sandalwood and something metallic, like old blood—filling my lungs.

"You aren't a trophy, Ivy," he whispered, his lips barely grazing my ear. "Trophies don't bleed. You're a liability.