Chapter 22 #2
"That Winter Lords can't be trusted?"
"Broader."
"That... that no one can be trusted?"
"Better. But you’re still missing the point.
" His thumb pressed against her lower lip.
"You learned that power recognizes power.
Malachar didn't come here for border disputes.
He came because he heard I'd claimed something interesting.
Something that made me..." He paused, searching for words. "Distracted."
"I'm not that interesting."
"No?" He leaned closer, and her breath caught. "You survived my bone garden. Escaped my oubliette. Bloomed golden flowers. Made me break protocol to retrieve you early. Caught the attention of my greatest rival. Tell me again how uninteresting you are."
She had no answer for that.
"Which brings us to today's lesson." He straightened, pulling her up with him. "If you're going to draw attention, you need to handle it better."
"Handle it how?"
"First, understanding weak points." He moved behind her, one arm sliding around her waist in demonstration. "When Malachar pinned you, where was his weight?"
"I—everywhere. He was everywhere."
"No. He was here." His arm tightened, showing the hold. "And here." His other hand came to her throat, gentle but instructive. "Two points of control. Which means..."
"What?"
"Everything else was free." He adjusted his grip. "Show me how you tried to escape."
She attempted to pull away, but his hold remained firm.
"Predictable. You pulled back, giving him more leverage." He tsked. "Instead..."
He guided her movements, showing how dropping her weight, twisting just so, could break even his grip. They spent the next hour on holds and escapes, and she tried not to think about how his hands felt on her skin.
"Better," he finally said when she managed to slip from his grasp. "But you're still over thinking it."
"How do I not think?"
"By feeling." He caught her wrist, pulled her against him. "Your body knows what to do. That warmth in your chest? It recognizes danger. Recognizes safety. Trust it."
"Trust the mysterious warmth that shouldn't exist?"
"Trust your instincts." His hand pressed over where the warmth pulsed. "When I touch you here, what does it tell you?"
The warmth flared, reaching for his touch like a flower to sun. Safe, it seemed to say. Home.
"I—it—"
"The truth," he commanded softly.
"It says you're safe." The admission burned. "Which makes no sense because you're the most dangerous thing here."
"Am I?" His hand pressed harder, and the warmth sang. "To others, yes. But to you? When have I hurt you without purpose? Without lesson?"
She wanted to list his cruelties, but found she couldn't. Everything had been calculated. Instructive. Even his punishments taught survival.
"That's different from safe."
"Is it?" He turned her in his arms, keeping her close. "Tell me—last night, when Malachar had you, what did you want?"
"To escape."
"And?"
The truth came reluctantly. "You. I wanted you to come."
"Because you knew I would."
"Because I knew you'd—" She stopped, realizing what she'd been about to say.
"Protect what's mine." He finished for her. "Yes. Always." His fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. "Which brings us to the next lesson."
"Which is?"
"Using that knowledge." He backed her against the wall, but unlike Malachar's violence, this was controlled. Instructive. "You know I'll come when you're threatened. You know others know it too. So how do you use that?"
"I don't understand."
"When someone corners you, when they think you're helpless, what do they expect?"
"Fear?"
"Yes. But also silence. Compliance. Shame." His hand traced down her throat, over marks old and new. "But what if instead you showed confidence? What if you made it clear that touching you meant answering to me?"
"They'd think I was bluffing."
"Would they?" He smiled, sharp and knowing. "After last night? After Malachar lost an eye for putting frost on your skin? Tell me, little thief, who in my court would risk testing that boundary now?"
Understanding dawned. "You didn't just punish him. You made an example."
"I made a statement. One that bears repeating." His thumb found her pulse. "In court today, they'll all be watching. Wondering. Whispering about whether you're worth the price of a Winter Lord's eye."
"Am I?"
"What do you think?"
The warmth in her chest pulsed certain of the answer. Yes. Yes. Always yes.
"I think," she said carefully, "that you don't like people touching your things."
"No," he agreed. "I don't. But more than that..." He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "I don't like people thinking they can."
"So today's lesson is about showing them they can't?"
"Today's lesson is about showing them you know they can't." He pulled back to study her face. "There's a difference. One is my power. The other is yours."
"I don't have power here."
"Don't you?" His hand spread over her heart where the warmth pulsed. "You have my mark. My protection. My attention. In this court, that's worth more than magic."
"Until you get bored."
"Have I seemed bored?" He pressed closer, and she could feel evidence of just how not-bored he was. "Last night, was that the response of someone losing interest?"
"No," she admitted.
"No. So stop thinking like prey. Start thinking like what you are."
"Which is?"
"Mine." Simple. Possessive. "And in this court, that means untouchable. Valuable. Protected." His mouth found her throat, pressing kisses between words. "It means anyone who even thinks of you thinks of me. Of what I'll do. Of what I've already done."
She shivered, and not from cold. "Is this still the lesson?"
"Everything's a lesson." He bit down gently where her pulse raced. "The question is what you're learning."
What she was learning was that her body had terrible judgment. That the warmth in her chest cared nothing for propriety or self-preservation. That when he touched her like this, deliberate and claiming, she forgot why she should resist.
"I'm learning," she managed as his mouth moved lower, "that you're very distracting."
"Good." He pulled back, satisfaction clear on his face. "Distraction can be a weapon too. Remember that when we're in court later."
"Court?" Alarm cut through the haze. "Today?"
"Of course today." He straightened her—his—shirt with casual possessiveness. "Malachar's people leave within the hour. The court will gather to see it. To whisper. To wonder." His eyes met hers. "To learn exactly where you stand."
"Where do I stand?"
His smile was sharp with promise. "Wherever I put you."
The threat-made-promise made her stomach flip. But before she could respond, he was moving away, selecting clothes from his wardrobe.
"Bathe," he commanded. "Dress in green. Do something with your hair that shows the marks." He glanced back. "All of them."
"But—"
"We'll see how well you learned about confidence." He headed for the door, paused. "Oh, and little thief? Don't lock the adjoining door. I'll want to check your appearance before court."
Then he was gone, leaving her pressed against the wall in nothing but his shirt and the memory of his mouth.
Time to prepare for whatever lesson he had planned next.
Something told her this one would be public.
The bath water reflected too much truth.
Briar stared at her body through the rippling surface, cataloguing damage like a cartographer mapping new territory.
The bite at her throat had darkened to purple-black.
Finger-bruises painted her arms in violent constellations.
The thorned mark wound up her arm nearly to her shoulder now, each vine more intricate than the last.
But it was the fading frost-burns that made her stomach clench.
Malachar's marks were still visible, faint crystalline patterns where his ice had kissed her throat, her breasts, her wrists where he'd gripped.
They'd fade completely soon, but for now they remained.
Foreign signatures on skin that should only bear Eliam's claim.
She looked like a battlefield where two winters had waged war.
The knock came as she was stepping from Eliam’s tub, reaching for a towel.
"Come in," she called, expecting a brownie with fresh linens to come to put the bed back together.
Instead, a willowy creature entered—not quite fae, not quite human. Her hair fell in an impossible cascade of silver-white, and her fingers were too long, too delicate, ending in pearl-like nails.
"His lordship sends me," the creature said, her voice like water over stones. "For your hair."
"My hair?"
"He says you will display the marks. All of them. Human hands cannot achieve what is required." She moved closer, those strange fingers already reaching. "I am Síocháin. I serve the court in matters of... presentation."
The name meant nothing to Briar, but the way Síocháin said 'presentation' made her skin prickle. She sat carefully at the vanity, towel clutched tight.
"The dress first," Síocháin said, gesturing to the bed. "Hair must complement the garment."
Briar turned and stopped breathing.
The gown sprawled across her bed, deep emerald at the bodice that darkened to nearly black, then gradually lightened down the skirt until it was pale as new leaves at the hem.
The bodice was fitted and decorated with intricate crystal beading that caught light like dewdrops on spider silk.
Long sleeves hung separately from the shoulders, attached by delicate chains that would leave her arms essentially bare while creating the illusion of coverage.
But it was the skirt that made her hands tremble. Layer upon layer of gossamer silk, each progressively sheerer, creating depth while revealing everything beneath. When the light hit just right every curve would be suggested and she would be displayed without ever being truly naked.
"Beautiful," Síocháin murmured. "His lordship has exquisite taste in frames."
Frames. Not dresses. Frames for displaying what lay beneath.