Chapter 11 #2
She stumbled forward, pulling her arms free of the dress, hiking the skirts up to keep from tripping.
The bowl. There—on the vanity where she'd left it.
Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she grabbed it, water sloshing.
Frederick bobbed anxiously, his bubble expanding and contracting with distress.
The door. She needed the door.
But the golden pollen hung everywhere, a beautiful glittering cloud she had to move through. Each step required conscious thought. Lift foot. Put down. Balance. The collar pulled at her energy, interpreting her escape as defiance, making her knees weak.
She made it to the door, fumbling with the handle. Locked. Of course it was locked.
Malachar groaned behind her, already fighting the pollen's effect. His body was fae, stronger than human. He wouldn't stay unconscious long.
The keys. He had to have keys.
She stumbled back to his prone form, dropping to her knees beside him, Frederick's bowl clutched in one hand while the other searched his pockets. The pollen was settling now, coating every surface in fine golden dust. She tried not to breathe, but her lungs burned for air.
There—a ring of keys in his inner pocket. Her fingers were barely working, the combination of pollen and collar making everything feel distant and strange. She grabbed them, stumbling back to the door.
Five keys on the ring. Her hands shook so badly she could barely get the first one to the lock. It scraped against the metal, missing the keyhole entirely. Finally in. Didn't turn.
The second key went in but jammed halfway. Wrong one. Behind her, Malachar groaned, his body shifting on the floor.
"Come on, come on—" The third key. Her vision was blurring, the edges going dark. The key slipped from her numb fingers, the whole ring clattering to the floor.
She dropped to her knees, Frederick's bowl hitting the ground hard, water sloshing out. The sprite swirled in distress as she frantically felt for the keys with fingers that barely responded. There—cold metal against her palm.
Back to standing took everything she had. The room spun violently. The third key again, hands shaking so badly it took three tries to find the keyhole. It slid in. Turned.
The lock clicked open.
She practically fell into the corridor, gasping for clean air. But that was a mistake. The deep breath made the pollen in her lungs activate more fully. The world swam, edges going soft.
"No, no, no—" She pressed one hand against the wall for support, Frederick's bowl in the other. The water sprite was agitated, creating tiny spouts that wet her hand.
Which way? She couldn't remember which way led to the stairs. The collar continued its steady drain, punishing her for running. Combined with the pollen, she could barely stand.
Behind her, she heard movement from the room. Malachar waking. Fighting through the sleep.
She picked a direction and ran—or tried to. It was more of a stumbling lurch, bouncing off walls, Frederick's bowl sloshing dangerously. The corridors all looked the same. Ice-touched stone, frozen windows, endless doors that could hide anything.
Footsteps behind her. Unsteady but gaining.
"Briar." Malachar's voice, thick with the pollen but conscious. Angry. "The collar will bring you back. You know this."
She turned a corner and found stairs. Down was the only option—down toward the dungeons, toward Karse and Thaine. Her legs barely managed the steps. Twice she almost dropped Frederick. The collar's drain was constant now, feeding on her desperate need to escape.
The golden dust clung to her hair, her dress, leaving a trail anyone could follow. Her vision kept trying to narrow, to fade into the welcoming darkness of sleep. But Malachar was behind her, and if he caught her now, after what she'd done—
She kept moving, deeper into the frozen heart of the mountain, clutching Frederick's bowl like the lifeline it was.
The stone steps descended into darkness, each one requiring her full concentration.
Hold the wall. Move foot. Don't drop Frederick.
The collar pulled steadily at her strength, interpreting every movement away from her room as defiance.
The pollen made everything feel like she was moving through honey.
She missed a step near the bottom, her knee cracking against stone. Frederick's bowl flew from her hands, water arcing through the air as it clattered across the floor. She heard it rolling, the tinny sound echoing off frozen walls, but couldn't see where it had gone in the dim light.
"No—" She crawled forward on hands and knees, feeling for the bowl, for Frederick, for anything. The floor was ice-cold, numbing her fingers instantly.
Light ahead. The soft glow from the occupied cell. She crawled toward it, dress dragging through the frost that coated everything. Her body wanted so desperately to sleep, to just lay down on the frozen stone and let the darkness take her.
"Briar?" Thaine's voice, sharp with alarm.
She reached the bars, fingers wrapping around them for support. The metal burned with cold, but she couldn't let go. Through blurring vision, she saw them—Thaine pressed against the bars, Karse behind him barely conscious, his scales now almost completely gray.
"What did he—what happened to you?" Thaine's hands covered hers through the bars.
She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn't work properly. The words came out slurred, incomprehensible. The keyring slipped from her numb grasp, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter.
"Dusk Blooms," She managed to get the words out, though they sounded wrong, thick. "The flowers. Made him sleep, but I breathed some…"
Footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate.
"No." She tried to stand, to run, but her legs wouldn't respond. The collar had taken too much, the pollen clouded everything. She could only kneel there, clinging to the bars, as Malachar descended into view.
His hair was disheveled, golden pollen still dusting his shoulders. His eye blazed with rage that made the temperature drop another degree.
"Clever little thing," he said, voice deadly soft. He moved closer, and she tried to crawl backward but her body wouldn't obey. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The disrespect you've shown?"
He grabbed her arm, hauling her upright. Her legs trembled, refusing to hold her. She was conscious but barely, everything swimming in and out of focus.
"Look at you. Can't even stand." He pressed her against the bars, his body caging hers. "All that effort to escape and you ran straight to them. As if they could help you. As if anyone could."
His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. A whimper escaped her and she heard Karse curse. "Maybe you wanted them to see? Wanted to show them how well you’re learning to surrender?”
Then he kissed her, hard and punishing, right there in front of them. She couldn't fight, couldn't even turn away, the collar and pollen having stripped her of everything but consciousness. He made sure it lasted, made sure they watched, his mouth cold and invasive against hers.
When he pulled back, she saw Thaine's hands white-knuckled on the bars and Karse trying to rise.
"Remember this," Malachar said to them, though his eye stayed on her. "This is what defiance brings. This is what happens when you forget who holds the power here."
He scooped her into his arms, her head lolled against his shoulder, the world spinning. From this angle, she could see Frederick's bowl overturned near the wall, the puddle of water spreading. Frederick himself, just a glimpse of translucent form in the water, trying to maintain cohesion.
No.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening," he told Thaine and Karse. "Tomorrow, Lord Malus arrives, and you'll all understand what true ownership means."
He carried her from the dungeon, her vision fading in and out. The last thing she saw was Thaine dropping to his knees by the bars, his hand stretching through, reaching for something on the floor.
The journey back to her room passed in fragments—cold corridors, stairs that made her stomach lurch,
"Such trouble you've caused," he said against her hair. "But we'll correct that. Tomorrow you'll kneel beside Malus's chair and thank him for his mercy. You'll wear the gown I chose and speak only when spoken to."
Another turn, another hallway, each looking identical through her blurred vision. The collar pulled steadily at what little strength remained, interpreting even her unconscious resistance as defiance.
"The Drak will be dead by morning," Malachar continued. "The cold is killing him by degrees. Your huntsman might last longer, but even fae blood freezes eventually."
She tried to speak, to protest, but her tongue wouldn't obey. Only a soft sound escaped, wordless and weak.
"Yes, you're upset about that," he observed, shouldering open a door she recognized even through her haze—her prison room. "Perhaps if you'd simply accepted your situation, they wouldn't be suffering. Their pain is your selfishness made manifest."
He dropped her on the bed without gentleness, then stood back. He watched her for a moment and then began removing his jacket, folding it with deliberate care over the chair. The message was clear in every unhurried movement.
There was no escape.
He unbuttoned his cuffs while watching her watch him, taking his time with each small button. When he rolled the sleeves up, she could see old scars marking his forearms, thin white lines that looked like frost patterns against his pale skin.
"You're fighting it," he observed as he moved closer to the bed. "Good. It makes breaking you more fun."
She managed to pull herself higher against the headboard, but there was nowhere left to retreat. The pollen was wearing off and she could feel clarity returning, but the collar compensated for her increased resistance by draining harder.
His hand reached for her ankle and his fingers closed around it like a shackle. His thumb found the hollow beneath the bone and pressed lightly, just enough to make his possession clear.
"Still so warm," he murmured while his touch traveled upward to her calf. "Even now, even here in my domain, you burn with summer heat."
She tried to pull away but he held firm, bringing his other hand to rest on her knee with deliberate slowness. The touch was light but promised so much worse.
"I can feel your pulse racing here," he said, his fingers tracing the inside of her knee before moving higher to her thigh. "Your body tells such honest stories, even when your mouth lies. What else is it going to tell me?"
The fire went out and with it the temperature began to plummet.
This wasn't Malachar's winter cold. This was the chill of deep forest shadow, of places where sunlight never reached, of roots that grew down into the earth's bones.
"I thought losing an eye would have taught you not to touch what's mine."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Malachar's hand released her ankle as he spun toward the shadows gathering in the corner, shadows that shouldn't have existed with afternoon light still coming through the windows.
"But apparently," Eliam stepped from the darkness like he was built from it, and he was wrong, all wrong, too tall and crowned with antlers that weren't quite there, "you need a more thorough lesson."