Vexaria spent the rest of the day trying to shake the encounter.
But the moment replayed in her mind like a curse—Xypheron's blade at her throat, his body close enough to steal the breath from her lungs, the infuriating certainty in his voice.
"I think we both know that's never going to happen."
She hated that he was right.
Because no matter how much she told herself she despised him, no matter how much she wanted to drive a blade through his heart—she had hesitated.
And so had he.
That was the real problem.
She wasn't the only one losing control.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She paced her chambers, restless, agitated, a storm raging inside her.
Then she heard it.
A knock.
Soft. Measured.
Her stomach tightened.
She knew who it was before she even opened the door.
Xypheron stood there, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—they burned.
Vexaria's fingers clenched around the door handle. "What do you want?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You."
Her breath caught.
Damn him.
Damn how easily he got under her skin.
"I should slit your throat," she muttered.
His smirk deepened. "You should. But you won't."
She glared at him, but it lacked its usual fire. Because she hated how right he was.
Silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them wanted to name.
Then, finally, she exhaled.