CHAPTER 38
Rizika's head whipped toward him. She stared at him; the glare never changed. If so, it only turned deadlier. As if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. As if he'd slapped her ego. As if he dared to dismiss her just like that. But he wasn't even looking at her.
He pulled his leather chair, sat on it, and started typing—deliberately ignoring her presence.
Dismissal.
Pure and simple.
For someone like her, that was more offensive than a threat. Her throat moved. Her hand twitched.
Her heel tapped once against the floor—annoyed, insulted, and something else she refused to name.
He wasn't her king.
He wasn't even her commander.
He had no right to dismiss her as if she were some servant who overstayed her welcome.
In Albria, she was feared—respected, obeyed—second only to one: King Halar.
On the battlefield, her glare alone stopped a man's breath.
