6. Court of Appetites #3
His expression softened, but he didn't relent.
Lifting his palm to her forehead to test for fever, he held it there a moment before shaking his head.
"You feel cool enough, but I'd rather examine you properly before you go anywhere.
" Straightening to his full height, he fixed her with that implacable healer's look.
"Especially before the royal banquet Surion insists you attend tonight. "
Her mouth dropped open. An indignant huff escaped as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why is Surion all up in my butt about this party?"
A strangled sound erupted from him, halfway between a cough and an incredulous laugh. Pressing a fist to his lips, his shoulders shook. “What in the Maker’s name kind of Canariae phrase is that?”
Seated primly across the table, Surian lifted a hand to cover her grin.
"It's the best way to describe it!" Though her lips twitched, the snap in Allora's voice held firm. "He's always in my business, sniffing around like some old hound looking for trouble."
Setting her napkin aside, Surian gestured to the platter nearest Allora. "Before you pick another fight, sit and try to eat. If Malec comes back and sees you haven't touched your breakfast, he'll chastise us all for neglecting you."
"I don't care," Allora muttered, but she dropped into her chair anyway. Picking up a slice of bread, she sniffed it and set it back down with exaggerated disgust. "Where is the big white goat, anyway?"
Luko's head came up abruptly, his brows drawn together in reprimand. "Allora," he said, his tone edged with gentle reproof. "Must you call him that? Malec has done more to protect you than any Awyan in this house, and more than a few of his own kin. He cares for you. Loves you."
Her face tensed. Glancing aside, she refused to meet his eyes. "You call it love. I call it dressing me up like a pet and making me wear those ridiculous collars. Like a dog he can show off to his friends."
Surian interjected with a clever quip. "Now Allora, you know that's not true at all. Malec has no friends."
A laugh burst from Allora before she could stop it. Then, realizing she was still mad, she went back to brooding. A delicate hush settled over the table. Surian's gaze softened, and she reached across to give Allora's hand a reassuring squeeze.
Sighing, Luko looked between them, clearly weighing how much to say.
At last, he propped his hands on his hips and inclined his head, his voice measured and low.
"Allora, if you'll let me, I'll explain.
I think it's time you understood why he does these things, and what they mean in our culture.
" He waited, watching her closely, ready to continue when she was ready to hear the truth.
Drawing a slow breath, as though gathering patience for a lesson he'd known would one day come due, Luko took the empty chair beside Allora.
One broad arm braced on the table, his eyes steady on hers.
"Allora," he began, voice pitched low, "I understand why you hate the collar. Why you resent the way he dresses you."
Arms folding over her chest, her jaw set in that stubborn line he remembered from the day she'd first set foot on Awyan soil. "Then maybe you understand why I won't pretend it's normal," she shot back.
"It isn't normal," Luko conceded. "Not to you. But among the Awyan, it's cultural. The collar is not simply a chain. It's a declaration. A shield."
Her brows lowered. "What the hell are you even talking about?"
"Listen," he said patiently. "In our society, a Canariae without a mark or a crest is considered disposable property, less than a servant.
Anyone with power could lay claim to you.
A noble, a visiting dignitary, even a merchant with enough coin.
To them, you'd be fair game. But when you wear Malec's crest, you are publicly under his protection. "
He paused to let that sink in, his gaze steady.
"It is a symbol of status. It tells every other Awyan that you are not common chattel to be bartered or stolen. It says, 'Harm her, and you answer to me.'"
Her mouth twisted, but she didn't interrupt.
"It is also," he continued, "a warning to other males. Our culture is predatory and hierarchical, a Canariae without a protector is seen as an opportunity to take. The collar is a line in the sand. It says you are claimed, and anyone who touches you courts violence."
Swallowing, her throat bobbed. For the first time, her scorn gave way to caution, the anger draining out of it. "And if I refuse to wear it?" she asked quietly.
Hesitation swept across his face. "Then in court, you are nothing. A rogue commodity. You would not be permitted to live here, or attend gatherings. You could be challenged in the street, taken without consequence. The law would not see it as a crime."
Her hands curled slowly on the table's edge. Leaning closer, Luko's tone gentled. "I'm not asking you to like it. But you must understand—he is not doing this to humiliate you. In his mind, this is how he keeps you safe."
A ragged breath escaped her. "Even the clothes?"
"The clothes are part of it," he explained.
"Among wealthy Awyans, power is measured by what you own, by the beauty and wealth of your household.
A Canariae in plain garb is an insult to the master's house.
It would be seen as disrespectful. Malec dresses you in finery because he refuses to let them think you are lesser.
He wants everyone to see that you are worthy of silk and jewels. "
She opened her mouth to form a protest, but he went on before she could find the words.
"He also believes you don't understand how dangerous these halls can be. If you walked into court wearing your own clothes—unmarked, unadorned—it would be an invitation to every predator there. He would see it as a failure of his duty to you. Allowing it would be, to him, abandoning you."
Surian, who had been listening in watchful silence, shifted in her chair. "It's the truth, Allora," she said softly. "If you were any other Canariae, you would have been sold ten times over by now."
Nodding, Luko continued. "And there is one more thing you should know."
Allora looked up, her lashes trembling.
"For an Awyan male," he said quietly, "to dress and adorn his Vash'telor is primal. It is part ritual, and partly instinct. A way of claiming and keeping. He does it because he does not know how to love you without trying to protect you, even from yourself."
Her throat tightened. For a moment, she could think of nothing to say, her anger draining out in the hollow quiet between them.
Reaching for her hand, Surian's palm was warm and reassuring. "He may not know how to show it in a way you'd choose," she said gently. "But his care is there, however badly expressed."
Closing her eyes, Allora could still feel the faint weight of the collar at her throat, the glint of the crest that marked her as his.
A burden she despised and, in some secret place, a shield she had never asked for.
When she finally looked up, her voice was raw.
"Then maybe he should have explained all this himself," she whispered.
Heavy with regret, Luko's sigh filled the space. "He doesn't know how."
Huffing, Allora leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tight over her chest. The explanation settled over her like an unwelcome blanket, warm and suffocating, impossible to fling off.
It was so much simpler when she could hate Malec without nuance, when she could pretend every gilded chain and jeweled collar was only about dominance and cruelty.
But now she understood, at least in part, pissed her the hell off.
Because it meant he wasn’t quite the monster she had decided he was.
He was worse: an Awyan who believed, utterly and unshakably, that suffocating control was the same as care.
What he had done could not be erased. Stealing her life, denying her the right to choose; none of that was absolved by cultural explanations.
Yet the clarity unsettled her, leaving her anger tangled with a feeling she refused to examine.
A slow breath escaped her, her chin lifting a fraction. "Fine," she muttered, voice rough. "Thank you… for explaining."
Inclining his head, Luko's dark eyes were kind. "You deserved the truth."
"Doesn't mean I'm going to forgive him," she added quickly. "Ever."
"No one asked you to," Surian said, her tone surprisingly gentle.
Sniffing, Allora reached for her glass. She drained half the juice in one gulp and set it down with a dull thud. A wedge of melon caught her eye. With a grimace, she picked it up, steeled herself, and bit into it. The sweetness settled her stomach, a small victory.
Finally satisfied that she wouldn't faint again, Luko turned his attention to his own breakfast. He carved a slice of cured meat onto his plate, while Surian helped herself to a small dish of pomegranate seeds.
"So," Surian began, her tone turning lighter, "how was the journey down from the High North? I heard the passes were snowed in."
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Luko sighed. "We were trapped for hours on the northern road. Your cousin had to send twenty men and half a caravan to dig us out."
Barking a laugh, Surian shook her head. "That's what you get for thinking you can outrun a mountain storm."
"I didn't have a choice," he retorted, though a wry smile tugged at his mouth. "Somebody decided she was going to start collapsing every time she stood up."
Rolling her eyes skyward, Allora muttered, "Somebody decided to show up and scold me over breakfast."
Ignoring their bickering, Surian turned to Luko, her expression bright with mischief. "And while you were freezing to death, you missed the tailor shop fiasco."
Mid-bite, Luko paused. "The what?"