Page 6 of Demon’s Snack

He says something I cannot hear.

His mouth shapes the words slowly, almost helplessly, and there is enough distress in his expression to bring my fear back into focus. Whatever this is, he did not come prepared for it. He looks as caught as I feel.

That should comfort me.

It does not.

The study door opens behind me.

I release the latch and turn before anyone can find me staring out the window like a heroine in a morality tale moments before she ruins her life.

Mira steps inside carrying a tray of correspondence and three sealed account packets. She is one of the estate’s senior housemaids, human, brown-eyed, quick-handed, and smart enough to look less intelligent whenever dark elves are present. Her gaze flicks to my face, then to the window, then back to me.

“You all right, Mistress Isolde?” she asks softly.

I hate the title, but correcting it in this house would only endanger both of us. “Fine.”

“You’re standing like someone put a knife between your ribs.”

“That would imply someone got close enough.”

Her mouth twitches. “Fair point.”

I cross back to the desk, aware of every step, every breath, every inch of distance between myself and the window. The pull does not fade as I move away. If anything, it stretches, taut and shimmering, a line running from my sternum through glass and stone and morning air to the impossible man standing outside.

Mira sets the tray down beside the ledger. “The west accounts came in. Lord Vaerith wants the contract leakage summarized before supper.”

“Of course he does.”

“He also wants the figures softened.”

I look at her.

She lifts both brows, making no effort to hide her opinion once she is sure we are alone. “His words, not mine.”

“Figures do not soften. They are numbers, not pears.”

“I’m only saying what I was told.”

“And I am only saying Lord Vaerith continues to believe mathematics can be intimidated by breeding.”

Mira presses her lips together, struggling not to laugh. “You’ll get us both killed one of these days.”

“Not today.”

The lie leaves my mouth smoothly, but something in my chest pulls hard enough to make my fingers curl against the desk.

Mira notices. Of course she does. “Isolde.”

I sort the account packets by seal, buying myself three seconds. “Did anyone enter through the courtyard in the last few minutes?”

“Plenty. Porters, kitchen boys, two guards from the south gate, old Bren with the chimney ash. Why?”

“Any strangers?”

“This is a dark elf estate. They consider anyone without an ancestral crest a stranger.”

“Mira.”