Of course I love her," Silver replied, his voice airy and effortless, as if he were discussing the weather. "Who wouldn't love their Queen? Every soul in the kingdom adores her."
Jericho arched a single, cynical eyebrow. "Every soul? Are we discussing the Eva I know, or the one living in your imagination?"
Silver offered nothing but a painted, unblinking smile.
The silence stretched too long. A vein pulsed at Jericho's jawline—the first crack in her composure, a sign that her legendary patience was finally fraying at the edges. She leaned forward, the smell of bitter tobacco sharp and accusing.
"You're a tedious man, Clown. I am asking if you love her—romantically. Do you want her to be yours?"
Silver didn't flinch. Not a single muscle betrayed him; he stood like a marionette with its strings cut, perfectly still and perfectly hollow.
