Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
The days blurred together.
Briar stayed in her room, curtains drawn against the weak autumn light. She couldn't bear to look outside, couldn't stand the thought of seeing those golden leaves drifting past her window when she could still feel Malus's hands on her skin.
The bite on her neck throbbed constantly, a dull ache that spiked whenever she moved wrong.
She'd looked at it once, in the mirror, and immediately wished she hadn't.
The wound was a vivid reminder of everything that had happened at the feast, of his teeth sinking into her flesh while the court watched and applauded.
She stopped looking in mirrors after that.
Food appeared on trays outside her door.
She forced herself to eat a few bites here and there, enough to keep functioning, but everything tasted like ash.
Her body felt foreign, like something that belonged to someone else.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of the court watching her, heard the echo of their applause, felt the phantom pressure of Malus's fingers between her thighs.
And Liefand's screams. Those woke her in the night, gasping and drenched in sweat, certain she could smell the rot of his eyes.
She didn't leave the room. Couldn't. The thought of walking those corridors, of seeing any of the fae who had watched her degradation, made her chest seize with panic. So she stayed in bed, or curled in the chair by the cold fireplace, or paced the same ten feet of floor until her legs ached.
The vial of bloodshade was hidden in her vanity, untouched. A reminder of her failure.
On the second day—or was it the third? She'd lost track—a soft knock came at the door.
Briar froze, her heart immediately racing. She hadn't heard footsteps in the corridor, hadn't had any warning. Was it him? Had he come to—
"It's Síocháin."
The breath left her in a rush. She crossed to the door on unsteady legs and opened it just enough to let the older fae slip inside.
Síocháin took one look at her and her expression tightened with something that might have been grief. "Oh, child."
"I'm fine," Briar said automatically.
"You're not." Síocháin guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, then settled beside her. "I heard what happened at the feast. What he did to you. What he did to Lord Liefand."
Briar's hands began to shake. She pressed them flat against her thighs, willing them to stop. "It doesn't matter. I need to try again."
"Briar—"
"I have to." Her voice cracked. "I can't let it be for nothing. Everything he did, everything I let him do… if I give up now, it was all just... suffering. Pointless suffering."
Síocháin was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "There may be other ways. We could try to get word to the Star Court. Or I could attempt to free Lord Eliam myself, create a distraction while you—"
"No." Briar shook her head. "He'd kill you. You saw what he did to Liefand for touching my knee. What do you think he'd do to you for freeing his brother and helping me?"
"I'm old. I've lived long enough."
"No," Briar repeated, firmer this time. "The plan stays the same. We use the bloodshade. We just have to make sure it's actually private this time."
Síocháin studied her face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there made her sigh. "You're certain?"
"Yes." Briar reached out and gripped Síocháin's hand. "This is the only way." She swallowed hard. "It will work. It has to work."
"And if he decides to make it public again?"
The question made her stomach lurch, but she forced herself to answer. "Then I'll find a way to get through it and try again. As many times as it takes."
Síocháin squeezed her hand. "You're so much stronger than you know."
"I don't feel strong." The admission came out small, broken. "I feel like I'm barely holding myself together."
"That's what strength is, child. Holding together when everything is trying to tear you apart." Síocháin tucked a strand of hair behind Briar's ear. "I'll make sure the wine is ready. And this time, I'll find out where the dinner is being held before you arrive."
"Thank you." Briar's eyes burned with tears that she refused to let fall. "For everything. For risking yourself for me."
"I told you. Old debts." Síocháin rose, smoothing her skirts. "Rest while you can. Eat something. You'll need your strength."
She left as quietly as she'd come, and Briar was alone again.
But the conversation had kindled something in her chest, a small flame of determination that had been guttering since the feast. She could do this. She would do this. For Eliam. For herself. For everyone Malus would hurt if he remained in power.
She forced herself to eat the bread and cheese that had been left on a tray. It still tasted like nothing, but she chewed and swallowed anyway. Then she bathed, scrubbing her skin until it was pink and raw, trying to wash away the memory of hands that weren't there anymore.
She was sitting by the window, hair still damp, when the door opened.
Not Síocháin slipping in quietly. This was someone who didn't need to knock, who walked in like he owned the space—because he did.
Her blood went cold.
The door swung open, and Malus filled the frame.
He looked immaculate, as always. Dark burgundy jacket over a cream shirt, his copper hair gleaming in the corridor light. His smile was warm, almost tender, and that was somehow worse than if he'd been openly cruel.
"There you are," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I was beginning to worry."
Briar rose from her chair, acutely aware of how thin her dressing gown was, how vulnerable she felt. "Your Majesty."
"Malus," he corrected, moving closer. "I think we're past formalities, don't you?"
She made herself smile. It felt like cracking glass. "Malus."
"Better." He stopped in front of her, his eyes dropping to the bite wound on her neck, and something flickered across his expression. "How are you healing?"
"Slowly," she admitted, because lying about something he could clearly see seemed pointless.
"I may have taken too much." He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the wound. She held herself perfectly still, fighting the urge to flinch. "I got... carried away. You bring that out in me."
He said it as if it were a compliment and draining her nearly to the point of death was something she should be flattered by.
"I haven't seen you these past few days," he continued, his hand moving from her neck to cup her jaw. "I've missed you."
"I haven't been feeling well," she said. "The feeding took a lot out of me."
"Of course it did. You're so delicate." His thumb stroked along her cheekbone. "I've been giving you time to recover. But I confess, my patience has reached its limit."
Her heart began to pound.
"I'd like you to join me for dinner tonight." He continued, his eyes held hers, and beneath the pleasant tone was steel. "Just the two of us."
Private. The word sent a complicated rush through her—relief that it wouldn't be another public spectacle, dread at what private with Malus would actually mean.
"I would like that," she made herself say. The words wanted to stick in her throat, but she pushed them out, softened her expression into something approaching eagerness. "I've been hoping... that is, after the feast, I thought perhaps you were displeased with me."
"Displeased?" He laughed softly. "Dear one, you exceeded every expectation. The way you begged me to touch you..." His eyes darkened with remembered pleasure. "I've thought of little else."
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.
"Then I'll be there," she said. "Tonight."
"Good." He leaned in and captured her mouth with his. She made herself respond even as her stomach turned. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright with anticipation. "I'll send someone to escort you at sunset."
He released her and moved toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Briar? Don't keep me waiting. I'm not nearly as patient as my brother was."
The door closed behind him, and Briar let out a shaky breath.
Briar waited several minutes to ensure he was gone and then crossed to the vanity.
She knelt, reaching beneath the heavy wooden frame to the small hollow she'd discovered in the ornate carving.
Her fingers found the vial where she'd tucked it away and pulled it free.
She turned it over in her fingers. Such a small thing. Such a fragile hope.
But it was all she had.
Síocháin arrived an hour before sunset, her expression carefully neutral.
"I confirmed it myself," she said before Briar could ask. "His private dining room. No court, no audience. Just the two of you."
The relief that washed through Briar was almost dizzying. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands pressing flat against the mattress to steady herself. "You're certain?"
"I watched the servants set the table. Two places. The wine I prepared is already there, marked with a nick on the label." Síocháin moved to the wardrobe, opening the heavy doors. "Now, let's get you ready."
She reached for a gown in deep burgundy, the color of dying leaves and autumn wine—Malus's colors. Her fingers brushed the fabric.
"Not that one."
Síocháin paused, glancing back at her. "This would please him."
"I know." Briar stood, crossing to the wardrobe.
Her eyes scanned the options until she found what she was looking for.
Deep emerald silk with an overlay of black lace at the bodice, the pattern intricate and dark against the green beneath.
A high collar of sheer lace, structured corset, and a full skirt embroidered with gold leaves and delicate vines.
Eliam's color.
She pulled it from the wardrobe. "This one."
Síocháin's expression shifted—concern, maybe worry. "He'll notice. He'll be angry."
"I know." Briar reached out and touched the fabric, cool silk sliding beneath her fingertips. "That's the point."