Chapter 11 #2
"Twenty-five years of looking at the living reminder of the worst night of her life.
Of the fight that ended everything. The child he didn't want, certainly not enough to die for.
" He tilted his head, studying her face.
"It wasn’t my mark that drove her mad, Briar.
All that guilt and the grief and the resentment, all tangled together, and there you were. Always there. Always reminding her."
"She tried to protect me—"
"Did she?" His smile turned sharper. "When I came to collect what was owed, did she fight? Did she beg? Did she offer herself instead? Did she even tell you to run?"
Briar's throat closed around the answer.
"She sent you right to me. She handed you over for Allegra without hesitation.
Her second chance. The child who came from love, not tragedy.
The one who didn't cost her everything." He leaned back, shaking his head slowly.
"Twenty-five years she had to prepare, to find another way.
Instead, she accepted it. Perhaps even welcomed it.
Finally free of the reminder. Finally able to save the child who—"
"STOP!"
The word cracked through the air. The blue flames in the fireplace flared white-hot. The falling snow paused mid-air.
Eliam smiled.
"There it is," he said softly. "Human emotion is such a powerful thing, so raw and real. So much better than that careful control you use as a shield."
Tears ran in hot streaks down her cheeks, no longer trapped behind a barrier of defiant determination.
"Here you sit. Born from death and marked by darkness," he continued, voice gentle now. "Your mother knew it. Every time she looked at you, she saw what she'd paid for your life."
"You're a bastard."
"Yes. We've established that." He rose, moved around the table again.
This time when he touched her face, his fingers came away wet with tears.
"But an honest bastard. Would you prefer pretty lies?
Should I tell you Jeffrey would be proud?
That your mother didn't spend twenty-five years seeing his ghost in your face? "
She turned her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look up, to meet his steady gaze.
"The truth is kinder," he said. "You were born of a bargain. Raised by a haunted woman. And now you're exactly where you were always meant to be."
"I was meant to be free."
"No." His thumb brushed away another tear. "You were meant to be mine. From your first breath to your last. The truth is, you sit here, alive, because it is my will. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life here will be."
She had no answer. Could only sit there in the obscene dress, crying while he drank in her misery and reveled in her heartache.
"Finish your meal," he said finally, returning to his seat. "We have one more course."
"I'm not hungry."
"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I said to finish your meal."
She picked up the fork, the correct one this time, and forced herself to eat. Each bite was mechanical. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. All while he watched, satisfied.
Dessert appeared without fanfare. Something beautiful and delicate, spun from sugar and starlight. It dissolved on her tongue, sweetness mixed with sorrow.
"Tomorrow," he said as she forced down the last bite, "you'll dine with the court. Public meals have different rules. Try not to embarrass yourself."
"Can't wait."
"Your enthusiasm is noted." He stood, gesturing for her to do the same. "Come. I'll walk you back."
"I can find my own way."
"No." His words were simple in their finality. "You can't."
He offered his arm, a mockery of courtesy. She took it because the alternative was being dragged. The silk whispered with every step, and she felt the satisfaction radiating from him.
At her door, he turned to leave only to pause.
"The dress," he said, not bothering to look at her. "You'll wear it again."
"When?"
"Whenever I desire to see you in it." His hand reached out, his fingers trailing down her arm, stopping just above where the mark ended. "Red really does suit you. The color of spilled blood… of broken hearts."
Then he was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway in a dress that felt like shame.
She made it three steps into her room before the sobs came properly. Deep, wrenching things that shook her whole body. She tore at the dress, needing it off, needing to be free of its clinging reminder of what she'd become.
But the fabric wouldn't tear. It would release her only when he allowed it.
She collapsed on the bed in the hateful red silk and cried until her throat was raw. Cried for Allegra who was forgetting her, for her mother who was finally free, and for herself, who would never be free again.
Morning came slow and painful.
Briar woke with swollen eyes and the red dress still clinging to her skin. It had finally released her sometime in the night, but she'd been too exhausted to change. Now it felt stiff and accusing against her body.
The mark had indeed crept past her elbow, wrapping around her upper arm in delicate patterns. She traced the new thorns through the fabric, wondering if they'd be at her throat by week's end.
Her breakfast sat on its usual table, steam rising from whatever passed for food today.
She forced herself to eat eventually, though the porridge tasted of dirt and her stomach churned with each swallow. Tonight. The fae dinner was tonight, and last night's humiliation with Eliam still burned fresh.
The books waited where she'd left them on the desk, three volumes on fae etiquette that made less sense the more she read. She tried to focus on the dense text about proper greetings between ranks.
When addressing a Duke of the Autumn Court, one must bow to precisely thirty degrees while maintaining eye contact for no more than three seconds but no less than two...
The words blurred together. How was she supposed to remember if thirty degrees was for Autumn or Spring? And what would happen if she bowed thirty-one degrees by accident? How was she supposed to know what thirty-degrees looked like?
By midday, concentration was impossible. Every sound made her jump, thinking it was someone coming to collect her. The upcoming dinner felt like walking toward an execution.
She abandoned the books entirely when a servant arrived with her evening attire. The woman draped it across the bed without a word, fleeing before Briar could ask questions.
The gown was midnight blue velvet dark as deep water, with a boned bodice that would leave her collarbones and shoulders bare.
Delicate gold embroidery traced patterns across the sheer upper portion with vines that would frame her throat like a decorative cage.
The sleeves bloomed from her shoulders before tapering to fitted cuffs adorned with more gold work.
The skirt fell in layers, the outer blue gradually darkening to nearly black at the hem, while glimpses of the white undergown showed through, patterned with butterflies and flowers in muted golds and blacks.
It was beautiful and designed to display her as a prized possession.
She bathed early, unable to sit still any longer. The too-aware water seemed to sense her anxiety, running alternately too hot and too cold as if reflecting her mood. By the time she emerged, her hands were shaking.
The dress was worse than she'd imagined.
The bodice required careful positioning to maintain any modesty, the sheer upper portion revealing the spread of marks across her shoulders.
She managed the hidden hooks at the sides but the long row of tiny buttons down the back defeated her.
After the fifth attempt to contort her arms into impossible angles, she gave up.
Her hair was another battle. Every attempt at an elegant style fell apart.
Pins scattered across the vanity as her fingers fumbled with sections that refused to cooperate.
Finally, she settled for pulling the top half back, leaving the rest to fall in waves that at least partially covered the exposed skin of her shoulders.
The knock came precisely at sunset, three sharp raps that made her stomach clench.
"Come in," Briar called, still fighting with the impossible buttons, the back of her dress gaping open to reveal her chemise.
Thaine entered with his usual predatory grace, taking in her half-dressed state with obvious interest. His eyes traced the exposed line of her spine before meeting hers in the mirror. "Having trouble, rabbit?"
She was too frustrated to care about his scrutiny, too desperate to worry about propriety. "The buttons are impossible."
"Turn around."
The command made her freeze. His reflection showed him already moving closer, that hungry smile playing at his lips.
"Unless you'd prefer to attend dinner with your dress gaping open?" His voice dropped to something deliberately intimate. "I'm sure the court would find that entertaining. I certainly wouldn't mind the view..."
She turned, skin prickling with awareness as he stepped into her space. Too close. Close enough that she could smell leather and something sharp beneath it.
His fingers found the first button, working it through its loop with practiced ease. "Such delicate fastenings," he murmured, his knuckles grazing her spine as he worked. "Almost like they're designed to require... assistance."
She held herself rigid as he progressed up her back, each button taking longer than necessary. His fingertips traced the edges of the fabric, ostensibly smoothing it into place but lingering against her skin.
"There's quite a bit of you on display tonight," he observed, breath ghosting across her exposed shoulder. "These marks have spread beautifully. His lordship's claim written across your skin for all to see."
"Are you finished?" Her voice came out tighter than intended.
"Nearly." His hands settled on her shoulders, adjusting the sheer overlay. "Can't have you embarrassing his lordship with sloppy presentation."
He turned her to face him, eyes conducting a slow assessment that made heat crawl up her neck. The dress clung perfectly now, every curve evident, the gold embroidery catching the light like veins of precious metal.
"You're nervous," Thaine observed, circling her slowly. "Your pulse is hammering. I can see it right here." He tapped the hollow of her throat visible above the sheer neckline, making her flinch. "How delightful."
"Shouldn't I be nervous?"
"Oh, absolutely. Court dinners are such intricate affairs.
So many rules. So many ways to give offense.
" He moved toward the door, clearly expecting her to follow.
"Did you know that at the last formal dinner we had with a human guest, he used the wrong spoon and accidentally challenged a duke to single combat? "
Dread pooled in her stomach as she followed him into the corridor. "What happened to him?"
"Hmm? Oh, the duke was merciful. Only took three fingers instead of his whole hand." He glanced back at her expression and laughed. "Don't look so worried. I'm sure you'll do fine. How many different forks did his lordship teach you about? Seven? Eight?"
"Three."
"Oh dear." His delight was palpable. "Well, perhaps if you're very careful and very lucky, you'll manage not to start any wars."