Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
By evening, her resolve had crumbled.
Not because she wanted to wear it. But because defiance here had public consequences, and she couldn't bear another display in court. At least dinner would be private. Only his eyes to strip her bare.
She bathed in the too-aware water, dried with towels that felt too much like hands, and stepped into the red silk with shaking fingers.
It fit perfectly, of course. The bodice cupped and lifted, the skirt clung before falling in that liquid way. Every move would flash skin. Every breath would strain the delicate embroidery.
She'd never felt more exposed.
The mark pulsed approval, sending warmth through her body that made the silk feel even thinner. She wrapped her arms around herself, but that only emphasized what the dress revealed.
"I hate you," she told her reflection.
The water-mirror rippled, and for a moment she could have sworn her reflection smiled.
Eight bells came too soon. Silver flowers had indeed bloomed along one corridor, their faces following her movement as she passed. They led deeper into the castle, to sections she had yet explored. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of winter roses and old magic.
The Winter Dining Hall doors stood open, revealing a room that defied season. Snow fell gently from the ceiling but never reached the floor. Ice crystals grew in artistic formations along the walls. And at the center, a table set for two beside a fireplace that burned with blue flames.
Eliam stood by the fire, dressed in a shade of dark green that made his pale skin glow in the strange light. He turned at her entrance, and something flickered across his face too quickly to read.
"Red suits you," he said finally.
Her face grew flushed and she had to force herself not to cover the vast expanses of skin the dress left revealed. "Did you have fun picking this out?"
"I have people for that." He moved to pull out a chair, an oddly gallant gesture considering. "Though I did specify the color."
"Why red?"
"Because," he said as she reluctantly took the offered seat, "I wanted to see you in something other than forest colors. Something that marks you as different from everything else here."
"Mission accomplished. I look like a whore."
His hand came to rest on her bare shoulder, just for a moment. The touch burned cold.
"You look like what you are," he said softly. "Mine to dress as I please."
Anger and humiliation warred in her chest as she clenched her hands in her lap, feeling the weight of his gaze pressing against her exposed skin. This was going to be a very long dinner.
The first course appeared without servants: bowls of something that might have been soup if soup could be made from moonlight and frost. It steamed despite being cold to the touch.
"Sit straighter," Eliam said before she could reach for her spoon. "You slouch. Are all humans so sloppy?"
Her spine stiffened automatically at the command. The position made the dress gap more, but pointing that out would only amuse him.
"Better." He lifted his own spoon with elegant precision. "Watch."
She watched him take a sip, the careful angle of his wrist, the way he barely parted his lips. Everything deliberate. Everything perfect.
"Now you."
The soup tasted impossible—cold and sharp and bright all at once. It didn’t make sense, but she had stopped trying to make sense of things in this place of lies and misdirection. Instead, she tried to mirror his movements, but her hand trembled slightly.
"Your sister," he said after a few minutes, his voice casual. "Allegra, isn’t it? Tell me about her."
The spoon clattered against the bowl. "Why?"
"Because I asked." He took another measured sip. "Unless you'd prefer discussing your mother? June, wasn't it? The woman who spent twenty-five years jumping at shadows."
Anger curled in her chest. "Leave them out of this."
"They're already in this. Your sister lives because of my generosity. Your mother's sanity hangs by threads I could cut." He set down his spoon with precise delicacy. "Now. Tell me about Allegra."
The mark pulsed warning. Briar forced her hands steady.
"She's twelve," she said quietly. "Loves terrible music. Talks too much. Laughs at her own jokes."
"You raised her?"
She nodded, her throat tight.
"While your mother did what? Descend into madness?"
"She wasn't mad." The words came out sharper than Briar intended. "She was haunted. By you. By what you did to her."
"What I did?" His smile was mocking and Briar had to resist the urge to throw something at him. "I saved her life. Pulled her from twisted metal and certain death. Is that not worthy of gratitude?"
"Gratitude doesn't survive twenty-five years of pain."
"Ah." He leaned back, studying her. "She told you about her mark."
"She showed me. What was left of it anyway." Briar met his gaze. "Scars and constant agony. Is that what I have to look forward to?"
"No." Something flickered in his eyes. "Her mark was... different. A reminder. Yours is complete."
Complete? What did that even mean? Before she could ask, the second course was carried in by servants who kept their eyes down and heads low. On her plate was meat so tender it fell apart at a glance, accompanied by vegetables she couldn't name. The colors were wrong. Too vivid. Too alive.
"Eat," he commanded. "And use the correct fork."
Three forks lay beside her plate. She reached for one.
"Not that one."
She tried another.
"Are you deliberately obtuse or was a night in my garden not enough?" He stood, circled the table to stand behind her chair. Briar felt her entire body go tense as he leaned in close. "This one."
His hand covered hers, guiding it to the leftmost fork. The touch sent a chill through her and she shivered.
"Cold?" His breath stirred her hair. "Perhaps you should have worn something warmer."
"Maybe you should have given me something warmer."
"Careful." His free hand came to rest on her bare shoulder, his fingers were warm, curling in tightly as though to remind her who was in control. "That tongue will earn you trouble."
She stayed very still as he guided her hand through cutting the meat, spearing it, lifting it to her lips. The forced intimacy of it made her stomach turn.
"Open."
Briar obeyed, lips parting so he could slide the fork between them. His eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that made heat crawl up her neck.
"Chew slowly," he instructed. "Everything here deserves savoring."
It tasted of summer memories, which made no sense but felt true. She chewed, swallowed, tried not to think about his hand still on her shoulder.
"Your father," he said suddenly. "You never knew him."
Why was he bringing up her father? Briar fought to keep herself from reacting in a way that he might exploit. "No."
"Yet you visit his memorial and leave flowers for a stranger." His thumb traced her collarbone, just above where the dress began. "Why?"
"He's not a stranger. He's my father."
"Is he? What makes a father? Is it blood or presence? He died before you drew breath. You're mourning a ghost of a ghost."
"How do you—" She stopped. Of course he knew. He'd been there that night, hadn't he? Besides, the forest saw everything.
"Tell me what your mother told you about him."
"That's none of your business."
His hand tightened slightly where it came to rest at the base of her throat. "The truth, little thief. Or shall I feed you the rest of this meal myself? Treat you as the child who can't manage basic honesty?"
Tears pricked her eyes. "She said he was kind. That he worked hard... that he would have loved me."
"Would have." His hand fell away and he retreated at last, returning to his seat and leaving cold spots where he'd touched. "Such conditional comfort. Did she mention how they got into the accident? Did she tell you what they fought about that night?"
Dread pooled in her stomach. Her mother had rarely spoken of that night, of the details leading up to the crash. The only thing she had ever talked about was about the goblin king, about him, Eliam. "Stop."
"He wanted her to get rid of you." The words fell between them with calculated cruelty. "Three months along, and he was still insisting. Said they weren't ready. Said it would ruin their lives."
"You're lying." But her voice came out small, uncertain.
"Am I? Your mother refused, of course. Told him it was too late, that she already loved you.
" He selected a piece of fruit from a bowl that hadn't been there moments ago, examining it with casual interest. "They were already on the highway when the argument truly escalated.
He kept insisting there were still options. She kept refusing."
Briar's hands clenched in her lap. "Don't—"
"She grabbed the wheel. Trying to make him pull over, to make him listen." His teeth pierced the fruit's skin. "Well. You know how that ended."
"That's not—" The words stuck in her throat.
"And afterward? After the accident, the rescue, the bargain?" He leaned forward, eyes bright with cruel satisfaction. "Did she tell you how she looked at you in those early days? This child she'd paid such a price to keep? The one her husband died trying to escape?"
"She loved me." But even as she said it, memories surfaced. Her mother's distant stares. The way she sometimes flinched when Briar entered a room. The long silences that stretched between them.
"Did she? Or did she simply endure you?" His voice softened to mock sympathy.
"Every milestone you reached, your first steps, first words, first day of school, it reminded her of what he missed.
What she'd chosen over him. Every time you smiled with his eyes or laughed with his voice, she saw the accident. The blood. The choice that killed him."
"Stop." She hated the way her voice cracked.