Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
The garden was dying beautifully. That was the worst part—how lovely autumn made everything look even as it killed.
Briar sat on a stone bench, watching leaves spiral down like drops of blood and gold, trying to prepare herself for tonight.
Her fingers worried at the wool of her dress, picking at a loose thread.
She had to seduce him. Had to make him believe she wanted him. The thought made her stomach clench, made the bruises on her thighs ache with memory.
"Hiding?"
She jerked, her head rising sharply, she hadn't heard him approach. Malus stood behind the bench, close enough that she could smell the autumn on him—dying leaves and smoke and something sweet tainted by rot.
"Just thinking," she managed, starting to stand.
His hand settled on her shoulder, keeping her seated.
"No need to get up." He moved around the bench, his fingers trailing along her shoulder, across the nape of her neck.
"I've just come from the bone garden. Did you know Eliam cultivated new species there?
Flowers that grow from marrow. Quite creative, really. Disturbing, but creative."
He sat beside her, too close. His thigh pressed against hers through the wool dress.
"You look better today," he observed, tilting her chin up with one finger. "Less... fragile."
"I slept," she lied.
"Good." His thumb traced her jaw, found the faded bruise at her throat. "This is healing well. Though I think I prefer you marked."
The warmth stirred in her chest, recognizing the threat. She forced herself to stay still, not pull away. If she showed hesitation now, if she showed fear, it would be harder to convince him later.
"Are you looking forward to tonight?" His hand moved to her throat, fingers spanning the places he'd bitten. Light pressure, just enough to make her pulse jump.
She had to start somewhere. had to begin the performance. "I've been thinking."
"Oh?" His fingers stilled but didn't leave her throat.
"About fighting you and how pointless it is." The words wanted to lodge in her throat but she forced herself to keep speaking. "You won. The throne is yours. Eliam is caged. And I'm..." She made herself meet his eyes. "I'm tired of fighting."
Interest flickered in his expression. His hand shifted, cupping her jaw. "Is that so?"
"He humiliated me. Sent his huntsman to torment me. Then let you take me." Each word carefully chosen, building the lie. "Maybe I've been loyal to the wrong brother."
Malus studied her face, searching for deception. Then he kissed her.
It was different from before—less violent, more testing. She made herself respond, her lips parting under his, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. The warmth recoiled, pulling deep, but she couldn't let him feel her contempt.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, claiming. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head for better access. She kissed him back, hating herself, hating the small sound he made of pleased surprise.
When he pulled back, his pupils were dilated. "You taste different. Less afraid."
"I told you. I'm tired of fighting."
"Show me." His hand found her waist, pulled her closer. "Show me how tired you are."
She turned into him, her hand sliding up to his neck before tangling in his hair, and kissed him this time. She made herself the aggressor even as her skin crawled. His surprised exhale against her mouth felt like victory and violation all at once.
His hands roamed, finding the curve of her breast through the wool, her hip, the inside of her thigh. The warmth flared with each touch, golden light threatening to show beneath her skin. She pressed closer, using the movement to hide the light, to distract him.
"Eager," he murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding higher on her thigh.
She caught his wrist, not pulling away but stilling him. "Not here."
"No?" His fingers pressed harder, a warning. “Shy?”
"You deserve better than a garden liaison." She made her voice soft, wanting. "Tonight. When we have time. When I can properly..." She let the sentence trail off, implications hanging.
He studied her, and she saw the moment he decided to believe her. His hand left her thigh to cup her face.
"Tonight then." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Wear something that comes off easily."
"Yes." The word barely made it past her throat.
He stood, pulling her up with him, kissing her once more—possessive and promising. When he released her, she had to catch herself on the bench.
"Don't disappoint me," he said softly. "I'd hate to have to visit Eliam before our dinner. Stress affects the appetite."
The threat was clear. She nodded, unable to speak.
He left her there, autumn wind picking up in his wake. Briar sank onto the bench, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She could still taste him, still feel the wrongness of his touch.
But he'd believed her. She'd seen it in his eyes, felt it in the way his hands had grown confident. Tonight. Just a few more hours of this performance, and then they could run.
The warmth pulsed, agitated from his touch, from her allowing it. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to calm it.
"I know," she whispered. "I know. But it's almost over."
The garden continued its beautiful death around her, leaves falling like a curtain between what was and what would be.
Síocháin arrived as the sun began its descent, carrying a covered gown and a basket that clinked softly with hidden glass. She locked the door behind her, something she'd never done before.
"Did you bring it?" Briar asked immediately, her voice tight.
Síocháin set down her burdens, pulling the small vial from her basket. The liquid inside was clear as water, innocent looking. "Bloodshade. Tasteless, odorless. Once you drink it, you have perhaps five minutes before it loses potency in your blood."
Briar took it with shaking fingers. Such a small thing to carry such weight.
"I've prepared a wine for you," Síocháin continued, laying out the dress.
"It will be in the dining room, the bottle marked with a small nick on the label.
It will help you relax, make this easier to bear.
Drink as much as you need." She paused. "But not so much you lose your wits.
You'll need to time the bloodshade carefully. "
The dress unfurled across the bed—deep russet silk that clung rather than structured, held by thin straps that could be slipped off with minimal effort. The neckline plunged low, the back lower still. It was a dress designed to be removed.
"He wanted something that comes off easily," Briar said flatly, touching the fabric.
"And this will. But it also hides things." Síocháin showed her a tiny pocket sewn into the inner seam at the hip, low enough that wandering hands would find skin before they found secrets. "The vial goes here. Don't forget which side."
Briar started undressing, her movements mechanical. "I can do this. It's just one evening. Just him and me. I can make him believe me long enough to—"
"You convinced him in the garden," Síocháin agreed, helping her into the gown. The silk slid over her skin like cool water. "He'll be expecting you willing. Eager, even. Give him that, and he won't think to question."
The dress required no corset—it skimmed her body, relying on the cut rather than structure. Briar felt exposed in a different way than the elaborate gowns. This left nothing to imagination while pretending at simplicity.
"Sit," Síocháin directed, beginning on her hair. "You're shaking."
"I'm terrified." The admission came out raw. "But at least it's private. Just one person to convince. I can focus on him, read his reactions, adjust if something seems wrong."
Síocháin's fingers paused for just a moment before continuing their work. "Yes. Just focus on him."
"What if the bloodshade doesn't work? What if he notices the vial?"
"He won't notice the vial if you keep him distracted." Síocháin pinned another section of hair, weaving it into something elaborate that left her neck bare. "And the bloodshade will work. I've seen it fell fae far older than Malus."
"Before, I wasn't actively participating," Briar said to her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked pale beneath the cosmetics Síocháin applied. "Before, I could blame him entirely. This time I have to make him think I want it."
"This time you're choosing to save Lord Eliam. To save yourself." Síocháin's voice was firm. "That's not participation. That's war."
She stepped back, surveying her work. The kohl made Briar's eyes look larger, darker. The red on her lips matched the undertone of the silk where light caught it. She looked like someone who had made a choice and intended to see it through.
"Remember," Síocháin said quietly, "he needs to believe you've chosen him. That you want to be there. If you tense, if you pull away—"
"I won't." Briar stood, the silk moving with her like a second skin.
She checked the vial in its hidden pocket, feeling its small weight against her hip.
"I convinced him in the garden. I can convince him tonight.
And once we're alone, once he's distracted.
.." She took a breath. "The wine will help.
I'll let him think he's won, drink the bloodshade when he's ready to feed, and then it's over. "
"Briar." Síocháin caught her arm. "Whatever happens tonight, whatever he asks of you—the goal is to survive long enough to act. Don't forget that."
Something in her tone made Briar pause. "You sound like you're warning me about more than seduction."
Síocháin's ancient eyes held hers for a long moment. "I'm warning you that Malus never does what you expect. Be ready to adapt."
Before Briar could press further, a knock at the door made them both jump.
"Lord Malus requests your presence," a servant called.