For as expertly as Layla navigated the twisted games of royalty, Arin had the sense she had never crossed the line into experiencing the true savagery leashed at its core. Hers was a high-collared life of perfume politics and deals struck over lavish meals in gilded manors. If I were a sensible woman, I would slit your throat while you slept. Arin thrust the memory aside with an impatient hand. He did not need to scour his own mind to understand that a certain kind of violence appealed to him—that the Jasad Heir’s oceans of wrath had called to Arin like a poisoned fountain to a parched man.
