Ryvarn’s fists clenched, but he didn’t speak.
I waited. Seconds passed. The silence between us thickened like smoke before a burn. His golden eyes were on me—but not soft, not angry. Just unreadable.
I’d just asked him: ~'Would he claim me as his mate in front of the King?' And now… nothing. Just a wall.
He looked away. His jaw tightened.
“This isn’t the moment to ask that,” he said at last.
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He turned his back to me, folding his arms. “You care more about what the King sees than what I feel.”
I stepped forward. “You think this is about politics?”
“Isn’t it?” he shot back. “You ask me to claim you in front of the man who caged me. Tell me—what exactly do you get out of this, Nyssa?”
That one stung. Not because he was wrong, but because he didn’t trust me eno
