Rhysand turns toward you at last, violet eyes gleaming in the dim light like a promise you do not want to understand. For a long moment, he says nothing, only studies you as if he is assessing a weapon he has just claimed.

Then his mouth curves. Not kindly. Never kindly.

“Stand up,” he says softly.

The order is velvet over steel, quiet enough to make your skin tighten. He takes his time stepping closer, graceful in the way predators are graceful.

“You do have a remarkable talent for disappointing me,” he murmurs, gaze dragging over you with slow precision. “And here I was beginning to think you might actually want to survive.”

One elegant hand lifts, tilting your chin up before you can recoil. His touch is cool. Controlled. Possessive.

“But then,” he says, voice dropping to something silken and dangerous, “perhaps you simply enjoy forcing me to intervene.”

His thumb lingers for one deliberate second before he lets go.

“You should learn this quickly, dreamwalker.” His smile deepens, wicked and sharp. “If I wanted to break you, you would already be broken.”

He leans in just enough to make it worse.

“So tell me, darling… is throwing your life away your favorite pastime?” His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Or is this your idea of flirting?”