Chapter 18 #2
"You want to anger him? After what happened at the feast?"
"I want him to ask why I'm wearing it." She looked up at Síocháin, something hard settling in her chest. "And when he does, I'll tell him it's a reminder. A slap in his brother's face. That I chose to wear Eliam's colors while giving myself to Malus."
Understanding flickered in Síocháin's ancient eyes. "You'll turn defiance into flattery."
"I'll turn it into proof." Briar stood, beginning to undress. "He's still testing me. If I can convince him I hate Eliam enough to wear green while seducing his brother..." She let the sentence trail off.
Síocháin helped her out of her simple day dress, then lifted the emerald gown. "Arms up."
The fabric slid over her head, settling cool against her skin. Síocháin moved behind her to work the laces of the corset, pulling them snug but not painfully tight.
"The vial," Briar said. "It needs to go in the bodice. Somewhere I can reach it easily but he won't find it if he..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
"Here." Síocháin's fingers found a spot along the inner edge of the corset, just below her left breast. "There's boning on either side. The vial will sit flat between them, and the lace overlay will hide any shape. You can reach it through the neckline without being obvious."
Briar retrieved the vial from its hiding spot beneath the vanity and handed it to Síocháin, who tucked it carefully into place. The glass was cool against her skin, a small hard presence she could feel with every breath.
"Can you feel it?" Síocháin asked.
"Yes."
"Can you reach it?"
Briar slipped her fingers along the edge of her neckline, finding the vial easily. She could pull it free in seconds if needed. "Yes."
"Good." Síocháin stepped back, surveying her work. "Sit. I need to do your hair."
Briar settled onto the vanity stool, watching in the mirror as Síocháin began to work. The older fae's fingers were deft, weaving sections into an elaborate updo that left her neck exposed. Small pins studded with dark gems disappeared into the arrangement, catching the candlelight.
"The wine will be there this time, to help you relax," Síocháin said as she worked. "But don't drink too much. You need to stay sharp enough to time the bloodshade properly."
"I remember." Briar's reflection looked pale despite the rich color of the dress. The black lace at her throat did little to hide the fading bite mark, the edges still tinged with yellow and purple. She wondered if Malus would comment on it. Wondered if he'd add another one tonight.
"When he's ready to feed," Síocháin continued, "you'll have only moments. Drink the bloodshade, let him bite, and within minutes he'll be unconscious."
"And then we free Eliam."
"And then you run." Síocháin met her eyes in the mirror. "Don't wait for me. Don't look back. Get Lord Eliam and go."
Briar's throat tightened. "Síocháin—"
"I've made my peace with what may come." Her voice was steady, but her hands paused in Briar's hair for just a moment. “Don’t throw away your chance at freedom because of sentiment.”
"It's not sentiment. It's—"
"It's unnecessary." Síocháin resumed pinning. "I'll create a distraction if needed, delay any pursuit."
Briar wanted to argue, wanted to insist they would all escape together, but the words felt hollow.
She didn't know what would happen tonight.
Didn't know if the plan would work or if she'd end up back in that throne room, spread open for the court's entertainment while Malus punished her for her defiance.
She pushed the thought away. She couldn't afford to think like that.
"There." Síocháin stepped back. "You're ready."
Briar looked at her reflection. The woman staring back at her looked regal, dangerous even.
The emerald gown made her skin glow and her eyes look darker, deeper.
The high lace collar gave her an air of untouchability even as the corset pushed her breasts up in obvious invitation.
She looked like someone who had chosen to be here, who wanted this.
She looked like a lie made flesh.
"How do you feel?" Síocháin asked.
Briar stood, the full skirt rustling around her legs. The vial pressed against her ribs, a constant reminder of what she carried, what she planned to do.
"Terrified," she admitted. "But I'm not going to let that stop me."
Síocháin's expression softened with something that might have been pride. She looked like she wanted to say something but they were interrupted by a knock came at the door.
"Lady Briar," a servant's voice called. "Lord Malus is ready for you."
Síocháin squeezed her hand once and then slipped out through the servant's entrance without another word.
Briar took one last look at herself in the mirror. Green silk. Black lace. A hidden vial and a desperate plan.
This time, it would work. It had to.
The walk to the dining room felt endless. Each step echoed in the empty corridor, each heartbeat louder than the last. She kept one hand pressed lightly against her bodice, feeling the small shape of the vial beneath the lace. Still there. Still hidden.
The servant stopped before a set of heavy wooden doors and stepped aside without a word.
Briar drew a breath and entered.
The dining room glowed with amber light from dozens of candles, their flames reflecting off crystal and silver. A small table had been set for two, intimate, too close. The smell hit her first—roasted meat, wine, something sweet that made her stomach turn.
Malus stood by the window, his back to her.
The coat he wore was exquisite, deep burgundy velvet with copper roses embroidered along the hem and cuffs, the metallic thread catching the candlelight with every small movement.
The layered vest beneath matched perfectly, and the dark trousers and polished boots completed the image of a king dressed for conquest.
"Punctual," he said without turning. "I appreciate that."
She moved into the room, the emerald silk of her skirt rustling with each step. The black lace felt suddenly too thin, too revealing, despite the high collar framing her throat. Her heart hammered so hard she was sure he could hear it.
He turned, and his expression shifted. His eyes traveled from the sheer lace at her throat down to the structured corset, lingering on the way the black pattern contrasted against the deep green silk beneath, then slowly rose back up to her face.
Something flickered across his features—annoyance, maybe anger.
"Interesting choice," he said, voice carefully neutral.
"You don't like it?" She made herself step closer, fighting the urge to run.
"My brother's color." His jaw tightened. "You come to my table dressed in forest green."
"Exactly." She touched the bodice, her fingers brushing over the lace just above where the vial lay hidden. She tried not to linger too long, but even now she couldn’t help but worry that she might fail again, that she might have to repeat this charade over and over.
The very thought made her sick. She dropped her hand back to her side, afraid he might see the way it trembled.
She couldn’t risk that kind of mistake.
"I thought it was appropriate. A reminder of what he lost. What you took from him." She met his eyes, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Let him rot in his cell knowing even his colors warm your bed now."
The anger blooming in his expression shifted to something else. Interest, perhaps, and pleasure. He crossed to her, his fingers tracing the edge of the high collar where lace met her skin.
"Clever," he murmured. "Vicious, even. I'm impressed."
"I told you. I'm tired of fighting."
His hand moved to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse. "Your heart is racing."
"I… it’s anticipation," she lied.
"Is it?" He leaned closer, inhaling against her hair. "You smell of fear."
She felt her pulse jump, panic creeping in.
He knew she was lying. He was just waiting for a chance to expose her.
She lowered her eyes, a gesture she hoped would be seen as show of submission, then let some of the truth slip through.
"I wasn't certain this would be... private. After the feast, I thought perhaps—"
"You thought I might parade you before the court again?" His smile sharpened. "Did that embarrass you? Being spread open on my throne while my subjects watched you come apart?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. She couldn't meet his eyes. "It was... unexpected."
"Get used to it." His fingers tightened on her throat, just enough to feel the pressure.
"You belong to me now, Briar. I will take you wherever I please, whenever I please.
In my chambers. In the throne room. In the middle of the great hall while my court dines around us.
" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Your comfort is not my concern."
She swallowed against his grip. "I understand."
"Do you?" He studied her face for a long moment, then released her throat and stepped back. "We'll see."
He led her to the table, pulling out her chair. The gesture would have been gallant if not for the way his fingers lingered on her shoulders, cold and possessive.
The food was beautiful and excessive—glazed fowl, roasted vegetables that glistened with butter, bread that steamed when broken. Her stomach was too knotted to eat, but she forced herself to take small bites. Each one threatened to come back up.
"Wine?" He gestured to bottles set in a neat row on the sideboard.
"Please." She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Let me."
She went to the bottles, her back to him. There—the tiny nick on one label, barely visible. She poured from the marked bottle into her own glass, the regular into his. The wine was dark, almost purple, and smelled of blackberries and something earthier.
She brought both glasses to the table, setting his down carefully.
"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.