He was five hundred years old. He should walk away—he shouldn’t be so damned bothered by any of this. And yet Lorcan snarled, “You’re jealous. That’s what truly eats away at you.” Elide barked a laugh that he’d never heard before, cruel and sharp. “Jealous? Jealous of what? That demon you served?” She squared her shoulders, a wave cresting before it smashed into the shore. “The only thing that I am jealous of, Lorcan, is that she is rid of you.”
