18. Nora

18

NORA

S ilas's office is eerily clean.

Not a speck of dust lines the bookshelves, and each piece of decor is perfectly curated to fit the moody aesthetic; the black walls and dark wood furniture certainly help with that too.

I sink into his desk chair, fingers drumming mindlessly against the arm. The taps are dull, the leather of my gloves muting the sound.

I'm honestly surprised his staff let me in here alone, but based on the lack of papers—or even a pen—this space isn't often used.

The door finally opens, and Silas enters.

His steps falter when he notices where I'm sitting. A huff of laughter escapes him as the door creaks shut.

"Pride. Nice of you to stop by," Silas says. He leans back against the door, shoving his hands in his suit pockets. He's forgone the suit jacket today, only wearing a fitted gray vest over a striped dress shirt and slacks. "Though I do recall already scheduling a follow-up to discuss what happened the other night…"

His eyes rake over me, narrowing when they land on my serious expression.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Patience got pissed we played with his toys. Then he torched my warehouse, and my supplier got caught in the crossfire." I smile, but it isn't sweet. It's that of a wolf. "So, I figured it prudent to inform you."

Silas's lips part on an o.

"That's an unfortunate turn of events. And so soon," he says, slowly.

"Yes. Unfortunate. That's a good way to describe it."

"Did anyone?—"

"Die?" I finish for him, brows hopping to my hairline. "Not from our side, luckily. Your Royal buddies will be out of their favorite imported champagne for a while, though."

Silas stalks across the room, coming to a stop in front of his desk; he leans forward, both hands spreading across the ebony wood.

A moment of silence passes between us.

I'm the one who breaks it.

"I told you what I wanted. And now you fully understand the stakes. So, the question is, are you going to give it to me?"

"What about what I want?"

"What do you want, Silas?" I lean farther back in the chair, crossing my legs. "It's not clear to me. Don't you want a little taste of revenge?"

His white brows knit. "Why would you think that?"

"Because Patience killed your parents too."

Silas's head tilts, a strand of white hair falling to the side. "And how do you know that?"

He didn't deny it.

"I didn't, actually, until now. Just had a hunch based on how you reacted to his name the other day."

Silas laughs; it's full-bodied and fills the barren room. He rounds the desk, squeezing between me and the wood. I push the chair back as far as it can go, but there's little room with the bookcase at my back.

He hops onto the desk, long legs dangling in front of me. We're far too close for my liking, but I don't back down. He's trying to intimidate me, and it's a challenge I'll meet head on.

"You're quite perceptive," he says.

"It was a skill learned out of necessity."

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm some kind of anomaly. "Tell me, have you ever experimented with your magic?"

I shake my head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's unique. Rare. Unstudied." The words sound savory on his tongue. "Little is known about soul-stealers. The other day, you tortured that man without killing him. How?"

The question takes me off guard. "I ask."

"You ask?"

"My magic. It enjoys killing, but I don't always want it to, or need it to. So, sometimes I ask it to go slow. It works so long as the wounds aren't too deep when I pull back."

It's second nature by now, though, with how much Pride made me practice treading the line between life and death.

"How curious." Silas's black eyes sparkle. "And you've never tried to delay death? To kill after you've touched someone?"

This time, it's my turn for my brows to knit. "It doesn't work like that."

"But have you ever tried?"

When I don't respond, he takes my silence for a no. Silas smiles; it's that of a fox who's cornered his next meal.

"I don't want a war, Nora." The use of my name and not my title has gooseflesh rising on my arms—and not the good kind. "But you are right in that I've developed a hunger for vengeance. You'd think fifty years would have quelled the bloodlust. They say time heals all wounds ." He bites his thumb on a sardonic laugh. "The elders are either lying or I'm just not that good of a man."

"It's probably a bit of both," I say. "Coming from experience."

"You don't think of yourself as a good person?"

"Never have."

"And why is that?"

I purse my lips. "Because it's not true."

Silas hums, considering my answer. Then he says, "Stand up."

"Why?" I narrow my eyes.

"I'm the king?" He rolls his eyes, and it's nearly playful. "Because I don't want to look down on you when I ask my next question."

Begrudgingly, I stand up. I'm bracketed by his legs, and even though we aren't touching, the heat from his body seeps into me. It's far too intimate a position.

"Do you want to kill a Virtue with me?"

My magic perks, writhing between my ribs; I have to take a deep breath to settle it inside me.

There's only one real answer to his question.

"Yes."

"Then here are my terms."