Chapter 19 #2
"You're holding yourself like glass," he observed. "Like you'll shatter if you move wrong. The court will see that as an invitation."
She wanted to say she felt like glass. Like something fundamental had cracked last night and she didn't know if it was breaking or becoming. But the words stuck in her throat.
"Then show me how not to," she said instead.
His hand settled on her lower back, just light enough to guide. The touch sent electricity through her, made the warmth sing, made her body remember exactly how those hands had moved over her in darkness.
"First," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "you learn to move like you haven't been thoroughly ravaged. Even when everyone knows you have."
The words should have shamed her. Instead, they made heat pool low in her belly and made her wonder if he was fighting the same memories she was.
"And how do I do that?"
"By owning it," he said softly. "By moving like a woman who chose her surrender rather than had it taken."
The warmth pulsed hard at that, and she felt an answering pulse from him, quickly suppressed but undeniably there.
They were both pretending. Both performing distance while that warmth wove between them, trying to pull them together. She wondered which of them would break first.
She suspected, with a mix of dread and anticipation, that it would be her.
"First lesson," he said, his hand still on her lower back. "Walking without looking like prey."
She took a step forward, and his hand pressed harder, stopping her.
"Already wrong." His voice came close to her ear, making her shiver. "You're moving away from me. Prey flees. Predators choose their direction."
"Then what should I—"
"Walk toward me." He moved to stand across the room, leaving her skin cold where his touch had been. The warmth in her chest pulled after him, wanting to follow. "Show me how you'd approach me in court. When everyone's watching. When they know exactly what I did to you last night."
Heat flooded her face, but anger sparked too. Two could play this game.
She walked toward him slowly, letting the warmth guide her movements the way it had when he'd been inside her. The dress flowed like water, the metal adornments catching light with each step. She kept her eyes on his, watching his pupils dilate as she approached with deliberate grace.
"Better," he said, but his voice had roughened. "Again. But this time like you're not fighting yourself with every step."
"I'm not—"
He moved faster than sight, suddenly behind her, his chest against her back. "You are. I can feel it through the warmth. That push and pull. Want and resistance. It shows in every movement."
His hands settled on her hips, adjusting her posture with clinical precision that didn't match the heat of his breath against her neck.
"The court will see that conflict and know exactly how to exploit it," he continued, thumbs finding the sensitive hollows of her hips through silk. "They'll push where you want. Pull where you resist. Take you apart using your own nature against you."
"Like you're doing now?"
She felt him smile against her hair. "Exactly like I'm doing now. But I already know all your weak points, don't I? Learned them thoroughly while you called me home."
The warmth flared at the word, and they both felt it—that echo between them that made him stiffen against her back. She pressed back against him deliberately, felt his hands tighten on her hips.
"Don't," he warned, but he didn't step away.
"Don't what? Move like I chose my surrender?" She turned in his arms, looking up at him. "Isn't that what you're teaching me?"
His eyes had gone dark, that careful control fracturing at the edges. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"I learned from the best."
For a moment, they stood frozen, bodies pressed together, the warmth singing between them. She could feel his arousal against her stomach, could see the war in his eyes between control and want.
He stepped back abruptly, leaving her cold.
"Again," he commanded. "Walk across the room. Without me this time."
She did, letting her hips sway naturally, letting the dress move as it was designed to. When she turned back, he was gripping the back of a chair hard enough that the wood creaked.
"Now pour tea," he said tightly. "Show me you can serve without your hands shaking."
She moved to the tea service, hyperaware of his eyes tracking her. The warmth pulsed with each movement, reaching for him, trying to close the distance he'd imposed. As she reached for the teapot, she froze.
Arranged on the table beside the service, strung on what looked like sinew, was a grotesque necklace.
A dozen appendages, each obscenely long with too many joints, still glistening as if freshly severed.
The webbing between them was torn but visible, and she recognized them instantly—fingers.
They still haunted her dreams, belonging to the creatures that had tried to drown her in the underground river.
She looked up to see Eliam watching her, his expression passive.
"The Gryndelok forgot their place," Eliam said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. "Hunting in my waters. Touching what belongs to me."
She stared at the macabre trophies, understanding washing over her. He'd hunted them, he had gone into those dark waters and killed them. The fingers were still fresh which meant he must have been out there at dawn, maybe earlier.
Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the tea, the display making her stomach turn even as something else, something warmer, recognized it for what it was. A primitive kind of protection. Vengeance served cold and displayed proudly.
"Bring it to me."
She crossed to him, offering the cup, trying not to look at the grotesque necklace again. He didn't take it.
"I said bring it to me. Properly."
The implication was clear. She should kneel. Serve from her knees like she had no power, no choice. Anger flared hot in her chest, he'd killed for her but still wanted her subservient.
"No."
His eyebrow arched. "No?"
"If you want me on my knees, you'll have to put me there yourself."
The words hung between them, challenge and invitation both. His control snapped almost audibly.
He moved, the teacup and its contents clattering to the floor, forgotten as he backed her against the wall. His hands braced on either side of her head, body caging hers without quite touching.
"Careful," he breathed, the word full of warning. "You haven’t the slightest idea what kind of fire you’re playing with."
"Don't I?" The warmth was burning now, pulling them together despite the hairsbreadth of space between them. "I felt you come apart last night. Felt you lose that precious control when I—"
His mouth crashed into hers, cutting off the words.
The kiss was punishing, violent with suppressed need.
She kissed him back just as hard, nails digging into his shoulders, giving as good as she got.
The warmth exploded between them, that echo doubling and redoubling until she couldn't tell whose need she was feeling.
He pulled back, breathing hard. "This is what the court will do. Use your responses against you. Turn your own desires into weapons."
"You're not the court," she gasped. "You're—"
"What?" His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. "What am I, Briar?"
The sound of her name in his mouth made her knees weak. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of the answer he wanted. Not when he'd left her to wake alone. Not when he was pretending last night meant nothing.
"My teacher, apparently," she said instead. "So teach me."
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "You want a lesson? Fine."
He spun her to face the wall, pressed her against it with his body. One hand stayed in her hair while the other traced down her side, finding where the dress clung to her curves.
"Lesson two," he said against her ear. "When someone in court touches you, and they will try, you don't react. Don't pull away. Don't lean in. You simply exist in their space without giving them anything to use."
His hand moved to her waist, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through silk. The warmth pooled instantly, wanting more, and she bit her lip to keep from arching into his touch.
"You're already failing," he observed, and she could hear the dark satisfaction in his voice. "That bitten lip. The way your breathing changed. The slight arch of your spine. All of it screams that you can be taken apart with the right touch."
"Then maybe you should stop touching me."
"The court won't stop. They'll push until you break or I intervene." His hand moved lower, bunching her skirt slowly. "And if I intervene too soon, they'll know you're a weakness. Know they can use you to manipulate me."
"Am I?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. "A weakness?"
His hand stilled on her thigh. For a long moment, neither of them breathed. Then his grip in her hair tightened, turning her head so he could see her face.
"You're mine," he said roughly. "That's all that matters."
But through the warmth, she felt the real answer. Yes. She was a weakness. Something that had gotten under his skin in ways he hadn't expected and couldn't control. The knowledge should have felt like power. Instead, it terrified her.
Because if she was his weakness, what was he to her?
He seemed to read the question in her eyes. His thumb traced her lower lip, and the gesture was almost gentle.
"We're getting distracted from your lessons," he said, but he didn't move away.
"Are we?" She turned fully in his arms, back against the wall, looking up at him. "Or is this the lesson? Learning to navigate wanting something I shouldn't want?"
"You already failed that lesson last night."
The words stung, but she saw the way his jaw clenched after saying them. Like they hurt him too.
"So did you," she said softly.
Silence stretched between them, taut with unspoken truths. The warmth pulsed, trying to pull them together, and they both fought it even as they stood pressed against each other.
"The court convenes tomorrow," he said finally. "You're not ready."
"Then we should continue practicing." She let her hands slide down his chest, felt him tense under her touch. "Unless you need a break? Need to attend to other matters?"
His eyes flashed at the reference to his morning abandonment. "Careful, little thief. You're not as recovered as you think."
"From last night?" She pressed closer, felt his body respond despite his control. "Or from this morning when I woke up alone?"
He kissed her again, harder this time, fingers tangling in her hair to hold her still. When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"You want to know why I left?" His voice was rough, dangerous. "Because if I'd stayed, if I'd woken with you warm and pliant in my arms, I would have taken you again. And again. Until neither of us could move. Until that warmth burned us both to ash."
The confession hung between them, raw and unexpected.
"And that scared you," she said, not a question.
"It should scare you too." His thumb traced her pulse, felt it racing. "What happens between us isn't normal. Isn't safe. That warmth—"
"Recognizes you," she finished. "Reaches for you like you're—"
"Don't say it." His hand covered her mouth. "Don't say that word again."
She bit his palm, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make him jerk back with a hiss.
"Home," she said deliberately, watching his control fracture. "That's what it feels like when you touch me. Like coming home."
He slammed his hand against the wall beside her head, making her jump. But when she looked at his face, she saw something raw there. Lost.
"You can't," he said roughly. "You can't call me that. You can't make this into something it's not."
"Then what is it?"
"Ownership," he said immediately, but the word rang hollow.
"Is that why you're shaking?" She placed her hand over his heart, felt it racing to match hers. "Because you own me?"
He caught her wrist, grip just shy of painful. "Stop."
"Make me."
They stared at each other, both breathing hard, the warmth pulsing between them like a living thing. She could feel his need through that connection, feel how badly he wanted to press her against the wall and take her right there. Feel how much he hated wanting it.
A sharp knock cut through the moment.
They sprang apart, Eliam smoothing his appearance with practiced ease while she tried to catch her breath.
"What," Eliam snarled at the door.
"My lord." Thaine's voice, carefully neutral. "Lord Malachar has crossed the border. He'll be at the gates by sunset."
The change in Eliam was instant. All heat vanished, replaced by cold calculation.
"Malachar," he said the name like poison. "Here."
"With an entourage of twenty, my lord. Making quite a display."
Eliam's smile was icy. "Of course he is." He glanced at her, and his expression was unreadable. "We'll continue your lessons later. Wear the silver tonight. Be ready."
Then he was gone, leaving her gasping against the wall, body aching with unfulfilled need and confusion.
The warmth in her chest pulsed once, mournfully, reaching for something that was no longer there.