"Mother?!" Rui Jones glared furiously at Heather, his pale fingers carving five grooves into the armrest as he leaned in, the wood splintering like brittle bones beneath his grip. His voice was a menacing growl, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through the throne room like a struck cello string. "How many times must I tell you—stay out of my affairs with Sibyl! Lay one finger on her, and we are no longer mother and son!"
I hadn't expected Heather to alienate even her own son. Had Rui Jones truly believed my tale of the harem curse? The way his pupils dilated when I'd spun that story—black swallowing crimson—suggested he'd clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood. Sensing Barnett's piercing gaze—sharp as an ice dagger, its chill scraping along my spine—I quickly lowered my eyes, feigning invisibility, my lashes casting spiderweb shadows on my cheeks.
