She froze.
Not because of his proximity. Not because of the way his hand held her in place like something already claimed.
But because of how easily he had seen through her.
Through her interest. Through the careful indifference she had worn like armor. Through the ghost of a girl who had died five years ago and should have remained buried.
It was easier—safer—to pretend she did not care.
But she did.
She cared in a way that bordered on something dangerous, something desperate, and somehow, despite all her restraint, that desperation had slipped through the cracks and laid itself bare before him.
Knowing was one thing. Understanding was another. He would never understand that the woman standing before him was the very one he had once been bound to erase, that she had survived him, lived through the shadow of his command, his kingdom, his existence.
