Chapter 12 · The Executioner's Clause

“Drop her, Cade. Or I’ll have the guards peel the skin off your fingers one by one.”

Serra didn’t even stand up. She sat behind that obsidian desk, fingers steepled, watching us like we were bugs pinned to a board. Her voice was a silk ribbon—smooth, expensive, and strangling.

Cade didn’t budge. He had me crushed against his chest, his arm locked around my waist so tight I could feel his heart drumming against my shoulder blades. He smelled like ozone and old rain.

“She’s not a pawn, Serra,” Cade growled. It was that low, dangerous sound that usually meant someone was about to get their jaw broken. “And I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“Games?” Serra leaned forward. A thin, cruel smile touched her lips. “You brought a condemned criminal into the heart of the Council. You’ve practically signed her death warrant with a flourish. Tell me, brother—did you think I wouldn’t notice the lock shifting inside her? Or are you just that desperate for a distraction?”

I tried to squirm, to pull away, but Cade’s grip only tightened. Then it hit. The internal lock in my chest—that jagged, cold void—gave a violent throb.