Page 27 of His Emotional Support Snack

Kalan shifts, a small whimper escaping his lips as the warmth of the dark elf vanishes.

Zuirvih pulls the thick, fur-lined blanket over the boy’s shoulders. He pauses, his long fingers lingering near the hair, adjusting the fabric to shield the child from the draft slipping through the glass archways. The movement is precise, devoid of the theatrical arrogance he displays in the courtyards.

The sight strikes a fatal blow to my defenses. The monster of Vhoig, the ruthless warlord who suffocated an assassin with shadow, tucking a half-blood child into bed.

Zuirvih straightens, turning away from the crib.

He approaches the room. The bruising, violet glow of his eyes is steady. The mocking, cruel smirk is gone, leaving his sharp, ash-grey features entirely sober. There is no mask. No armor. Just the raw, unreadable truth of the man beneath.

"The boy exhausted himself in the lower halls." His voice is a low, quiet hum, kept soft to avoid waking the child. "Jarek attempted to carry him up the stairs, but he demanded my coat."

I uncurl my fists, the tension draining from my shoulders in a sudden, violent wave. My knees tremble, the exhaustion of the last few hours threatening to drop me to the floorboards.

"Where are the guards?" My voice rasps, thin and broken.

"Patrolling the perimeter." He stops a few feet away, the distance between us a sudden, gaping chasm. "They have their orders. The western wing is secure."

"You didn't tell them."

"I told them nothing."

He walks past me, heading toward the massive, silk-adorned bed dominating the far wall. He does not demand I follow, but the gravity of his presence pulls me in his wake. I turn, watching him sink onto the edge of the mattress. The frame groans softly under his weight.

He rests his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. The gold epaulets catch the firelight. He stares at the woven rug for a long, stretching moment.

"The narrative remains intact." Zuirvih lifts his head, pinning me with that steady, burning gaze. "To the high council, to my uncle, to the Zagfer servants scrubbing the floors—you are the mother of the Tagnadaet heir. You are the human mistress I favor above all others. If the court suspects a fracture in the bloodline, Zatori will strike."

I take a slow step toward the bed. "And between us?"

"Between us, the masks are burned."

He opens his hand, extending it toward me, palm facing upward. A silent invitation. A terrifying precipice of a choice.

I cross the remaining distance. The emerald silk whispers against my ankles. I hesitate for a second before placing my hand into his.

His fingers wrap around mine. The soft leather of his glove is gone, discarded somewhere between the study and the nursery. His bare skin is cool, contrasting sharply with the fevered heat of my own. He pulls gently, guiding me until I stand directly between his parted knees.

He does not yank me down. He does not force a submission.

Zuirvih shifts his grip, turning my hand over. He lowers his head, his locks spilling forward over his shoulders. His thumb traces the rough, work-worn lines of my palm. He maps the callouses built from years of hauling cargo crates in the harbor, the blistered skin earned from scraping salt off the Lowtown docks.

The touch is grounding. A slow, methodical pressure that chases away the frantic, terrified buzzing in my skull. The chaotic hum of his magic wraps around my wrist, a warm, protective barrier sealing out the cold air of the room.

"Why?" The question slips out, barely a whisper. "You have the boy. You have the leverage over Zatori. I am a liability. An unregistered human who lied to your face. Why am I still breathing?"

He continues to trace the center of my palm, tracing the lifeline cutting across the skin.

"You harbor a cure to a terminal necrosis within your veins." He states the clinical fact first, the logic the Khuzuth mind demands. "If I banish you to the Lowtown, I forfeit my own survival."

"You could lock me in the dungeons." I counter, my pulse jumping as his thumb brushes the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, lingering over the pulse point. "You could chain me to a wall and drain what you need. It is what the rest of your kind would do."

Zuirvih stops moving.

He looks up, the angle bringing his face agonizingly close to my waist. His eyes darken, the glowing rings expanding until they swallow the pupil. The aristocratic coldness shatters, revealing the raw, aching desperation underneath.

"I cannot."

He brings my hand up to his face, pressing his cheek against my rough palm. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch with a profound, staggering vulnerability.