King

Silas stirs with a groan—low and ragged, like he's coming back from the grave.

Shame. He won't be staying long. 

I flex my gloved hand and settle on the edge of the desk, watching awareness slither behind his eyes. There's a swollen lump on his forehead where it cracked against the wood—the skin split, blood crusted in a jagged line.

"Good. You're awake." I tilt my head, my eyes locked on his. "I was starting to get bored."

He blinks. Slow. ...