Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting long shadows across the floor.
Briar sat at the vanity, her reflection showing someone she barely recognized.
The servants had dressed her like a doll—efficient hands fastening the silver buttons, adjusting the fit, styling her hair into something elegant and unfamiliar.
She'd stood passive through it all because fighting would only drain her, and she needed whatever strength she could preserve.
The dress was deep blue, almost black, fitted perfectly to her frame. Which disturbed her more than if it hadn't fit at all. How long had Malachar been planning this? How many measurements taken while she slept?
Frederick floated more actively in his bowl, now positioned on the vanity where she could see him.
She'd added the remaining hot water from the tea service after the servants left, and the warmth had revived him considerably.
His bubble was nearly normal size, and he'd even managed a few small spouts of water when she'd whispered to him—his version of conversation.
The lock turned.
Malachar entered without announcement, closing the door with deliberate care. His eye swept over her, taking in the styled hair, the proper dress, the straight posture.
"Much better." He moved into the room with the confidence of ownership. "You clean up remarkably well when you apply yourself."
She said nothing, watching him in the mirror as he approached. The collar sat heavy against her throat, hidden beneath lace but ever-present.
"Stand. Let me see you properly."
She rose, turning to face him. He circled her slowly, occasionally adjusting something—a fold of fabric, an escaped strand of hair. Each touch was light but lingering, claiming territory.
"Tomorrow's dinner will be significant," he said, stopping in front of her. "The formal transfer of ownership, so to speak. Malus is quite eager to receive his gift."
"I'm not—"
"Not what? Not property?" He smiled, reaching out to trace the line of the collar through the fabric. "This says otherwise. As does the mark beneath it. As does your presence here."
His fingers moved from the collar to her jaw, tilting her face up. "You've been passed from keeper to keeper. The Forest Lord, the Star Prince, that Drak creature. Now me and soon Malus. At what point will you accept what you are?"
The truth of it sat heavy in her stomach. She had been passed between them, each claiming ownership in their own way. The collar sensed her despair and fed lightly, just enough to keep her docile.
"Nothing to say?" His thumb traced her lower lip. "You were more spirited that night in the Forest Court. Before your protector arrived."
The reminder of that night, of what he'd tried to do, made the warmth in her chest contract with terror. He felt her tense and smiled.
"Yes, you remember. The way you struggled, bit my hand. Drew blood." He held up his hand, showing faint scars from her teeth. "I kept these. A memento."
He moved closer, backing her against the vanity. The mirror was cold against her back.
"Shall we continue where we left off? No interruptions this time. No Forest Lord bursting through shadows." His hands settled on her waist, holding her in place. "Just you and I, finishing what we started."
"Don't." The word came out weak, the collar already draining the defiance from it.
"Don't?" He leaned closer, his breath cold against her cheek. "But we have such history, you and I. That kiss we shared—do you remember the taste of winter?"
One hand moved to her hair, pulling pins free until it tumbled down her back. "Better. You look less severe this way."
She tried to turn her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. The patch gleamed in the afternoon light, and she wondered if he could see her elevated temperature, the fear radiating from her skin.
"I can see your heart racing," he confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. "The heat blooming across your skin. Fascinating, really. Your body's responses are so... honest."
His lips brushed her jaw and made her stomach turn. The warmth in her chest recoiled, pulling away from his touch, trying to retreat somewhere safe that didn't exist.
"Stop." She pushed against his chest, but the collar immediately activated, draining the strength from her arms.
"Still fighting." He caught her wrists easily, pressing them against the mirror on either side of her. "The collar will train you out of that eventually. But for now..."
He kissed her.
It was like that first time—cold, invasive, and wrong. His tongue forced past her lips, bringing winter into her mouth. The taste of frost and something metallic made her try to pull back, but she was trapped between him and the vanity.
The warmth in her chest thrashed, desperate and wild. It pushed against the collar's suppression, fighting to respond to the threat. She could feel it building, something beyond the collar's ability to drain—not her anger but the magic itself, acting independently.
Malachar pulled back, studying her face. "You taste different than before. Sweeter. Fear, perhaps? Or resignation?"
His hands released her wrists to travel down her arms, over her ribs, settling at her waist again. "Let's see what else has changed."
He turned her roughly to face the mirror, pressing against her back. "Watch," he commanded, his reflection meeting her eyes over her shoulder. "I want you to see yourself surrender."
One hand moved to the buttons at her back, working the first one free. Then the second. She could see his fingers in the mirror, pale against the dark fabric, methodical in their violation. The dress loosened, and his hand slipped inside, fingers ice-cold against her spine.
"Your skin is so warm," he murmured against her throat, watching her face in the glass. "Like touching summer itself."
Another button. Another. The dress gaped open, and he pushed it off one shoulder, revealing the chemise beneath. His mouth found the exposed skin, teeth scraping lightly, and she watched herself flinch in the mirror—watched him smile at her reaction.
"The collar is working beautifully," he observed, his hand sliding around to her stomach, pulling her back against him. "You want to fight, I can see it in your eyes, but you simply... can't."
The warmth in her chest thrashed wildly, pushing against the collar's suppression. Not her emotion but something deeper, older, protective. She felt it gathering, coalescing, fighting to break through.
His other hand came up to her throat, fingers tracing the collar through the remaining fabric. Then lower, over her collarbones, pushing the dress off her other shoulder. It pooled at her elbows, trapping her arms.
"Perfect," he said, turning her chin to force her to keep watching. "Look at yourself. Is this what the Forest Lord saw? This mixture of fear and—"
The warmth surged.
It pushed through the collar's suppression like water breaking through a dam. Building into something she couldn't control, power gathering in her chest, behind her ribs, spreading outward.
Then the flowers began to bloom.
The first one rose from the floorboards by the vanity's leg, pale petals unfurling like a hand opening. Then another pushed through near the door, and another by the window. They were beautiful—white tinged with the faintest gold at the edges, their centers glowing softly in the afternoon light.
Malachar paused, his hands still on her shoulders, holding the dress that trapped her arms. "What is this?"
"I don't—" But she did. Memory supplied the image suddenly: Eliam in his garden at dusk, pointing out flowers that only opened as day turned to night.
Dusk Blooms, he'd called them, though he'd warned her never to smell them directly.
"They defend themselves with dreams," he'd said.
"One breath and you'll sleep where you stand. "
More of the flowers bloomed, pushing up through cracks in the stone, spreading across the floor in a slowly expanding circle. Malachar's fascination overcame his caution.
"Extraordinary." He didn't release her, but his attention had shifted to the display as his hand moved to her throat, turning her face toward him. "Can you control it? Make them stop?"
"I don't know how—"
"No, of course you don't." His grip tightened slightly. "Pure instinct, pure protection. How beautifully primitive."
The flowers continued blooming, their petals fully open now, trembling slightly though there was no breeze. She could see golden dust beginning to form in their centers, gathering like tiny storms.
"They're quite lovely," he said, returning his attention to her partially exposed form in the mirror. "Harmless things. Though I suppose even rabbits try to run when cornered."
His mouth returned to her shoulder, teeth grazing skin. "Where were we?"
The golden dust swirled deeper in the flowers' centers. She recognized the signs, they were about to release. Eliam's warning echoed in her memory: "Hold your breath if you're ever near them when they spread their pollen."
She inhaled deeply just as the flowers erupted.
Golden clouds burst from every bloom simultaneously, filling the air with shimmering dust that caught the afternoon light like suspended gold. Malachar, mid-sentence about her warmth, took a full breath of it directly.
The effect was instantaneous.
His eye rolled back, showing white. His grip on her shoulders went slack, then his knees buckled. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that shook the vanity.
But she'd breathed some too—just a small amount before holding her breath, but enough. The room tilted strangely. Her limbs felt heavy, disconnected. The collar, sensing her attempt to flee, began draining what little strength remained.
Frederick. She had to get Frederick.