23. Kessara
KESSARA
"The gardens? Again?"
Three pairs of eyes stare back at me from across the dining table, plates scraped so clean they practically gleam in the candlelight.
Bran sits straighter in his chair, affecting an air of innocent virtue that fools absolutely no one.
Lysa clasps her hands together like she's praying to some benevolent deity of outdoor adventures.
Even Tobin has abandoned his usual bashful demeanor in favor of hopeful expectation.
"We finished everything," Bran announces, gesturing toward his spotless plate with the pride of someone who's just conquered a mountain. "Every last crumb."
"Including the carrots," Lysa adds, wrinkling her nose at the memory. "Even though they taste like dirt."
I glance at the empty serving dishes scattered across the polished mahogany surface. They devoured tonight's meal with the efficiency of a pack of wolves, clearly hoping their enthusiasm for roasted chicken and vegetables would earn them extended playtime privileges.
"It's nearly dark," I point out, rising to gather the abandoned plates. "Past time for baths and bed, not garden adventures."
The collective groan that erupts from their throats could wake the dead.
Tobin slumps forward dramatically, resting his forehead against the table's edge.
Lysa's lower lip juts out in a pout that could melt stone.
Bran crosses his arms and fixes me with the sort of wounded expression he usually reserves for truly devastating injustices.
"But Kessa—"
"No arguments." I stack the plates with practiced efficiency, the familiar weight of responsibility settling across my shoulders like a well-worn cloak. "You'll have plenty of time tomorrow to terrorize the poor flowers."
"Five more minutes?" Lysa tries, batting her eyelashes with theatrical innocence.
"Not even one."
Zerion's voice pierces through their mounting rebellion like silk over steel. "Perhaps," he says, setting down his wine glass with deliberate precision, "you might consider the advantages of prompt obedience."
All three children turn toward him with sudden attention, recognizing the tone that usually precedes either punishment or unexpected rewards. In the soft glow of the dining room candles, his pale eyes hold just enough mystery to keep them guessing.
"Each of you now has your own room," he continues, leaning back in his chair with casual authority. "Proper beds, warm blankets, space for your belongings. Should you listen to your sister without complaint, Mrs. Aldren might be persuaded to bring warm milk and elderberry cookies before you sleep."
The transformation is immediate and complete. Lysa bolts upright in her chair, eyes wide as saucers. Tobin's dramatic slump vanishes as he straightens with renewed energy. Even Bran abandons his sullen protest in favor of barely contained excitement.
"Really?" Lysa breathes, as if he's just promised her the crown jewels.
"Mrs. Aldren's elderberry cookies?" Tobin adds, voice climbing toward a squeak.
Before anyone can answer, all three children explode into motion.
Chairs scrape against polished wood as they leap up from the table, tumbling over each other in their haste to reach the doorway.
Their excited chatter echoes through the corridor as they race toward the bathing rooms, Mrs. Aldren's patient voice drifting after them as she attempts to restore some semblance of order to their enthusiasm.
I shake my head, watching their retreating figures with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "You don't need to spoil them, you know."
Zerion rises from his chair with fluid grace, the candlelight casting sharp angles across his elegant features. "They deserve to be spoiled." His gaze finds mine across the table, steady and unwavering. "So do you."
Heat blooms in my chest at the quiet intensity in his voice.
I turn away quickly, focusing on clearing the remaining dishes to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
"I should finish cleaning up and then go check on them.
Make sure they actually wash behind their ears instead of just splashing water around. "
The soft sound of his footsteps approaches from behind, measured and purposeful. Before I can reach for another serving dish, warm hands cover mine, stilling my movements entirely.
"You're done working for tonight," he says, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
"You can't play favorites—"
"I can," he interrupts firmly, his hands tightening slightly over mine. "And I will. You are my favorite, Kessara. In all my years, I've never been drawn to anyone as I am drawn to you."
The confession hits me like cold water, stealing my breath entirely. Years of surviving on scraps and suspicion have taught me to distrust declarations like this, but the quiet certainty in his voice makes something flutter dangerously in my chest.
"Zerion—"
"And I will favor you."
His mouth finds mine before I can finish the protest, the kiss gentle as morning mist but somehow more devastating than any force he could have used. When he pulls back, grey eyes study my face with the same careful attention he gives estate ledgers, as if memorizing every detail.
"I think it's time for you to bathe and dress for bed as well, sweet."
The endearment sends warmth spiraling through me even as my practical mind catalogues all the reasons this is dangerous territory. Following him up the manor's grand staircase feels like crossing some invisible threshold, each step taking me further from the safety of predictable boundaries.
His private chambers sprawl across the entire east wing, furnished with dark wood and rich fabrics that probably cost more than I earned in three years of petty theft.
But what stops me short is the massive copper tub positioned near the fireplace, steam rising from water that shimmers with lavender oil and a layer of bubbles that catch the flickering light.
"When did you—"
"While you were arguing with the children about vegetables." He shrugs off his jacket with practiced ease, the dark fabric pooling on a nearby chair. "Mrs. Aldren has excellent timing."
I watch in fascination as he continues undressing, each movement deliberate and unhurried. The firelight plays across the pale planes of his chest, highlighting muscle earned through swordwork rather than manual labor. When he steps into the tub, the water level rises dangerously close to the rim.
A satisfied groan escapes him as he settles back against the copper edge. "The water won't be this warm forever, Kessara."
My fingers fumble with the laces of my bodice, suddenly clumsy under his patient gaze.
The simple linen shifts and woolen stockings that seemed perfectly adequate this morning now feel rough and shabby in the elegant surroundings.
But Zerion watches me shed each layer with the same intensity he reserves for matters of life and death.
The water embraces me like silk, impossibly warm and scented with herbs I can't identify. Settling against him sends every nerve ending into riot, his skin burning against mine despite the heated bath.
"Better?" His voice rumbles against my ear.
"Much." The admission spills forth before I can stop it.
His hands move with surprising gentleness as he cups water and lets it flow over my hair, the warmth cascading down my scalp in rivulets that chase away the tension I've carried for weeks.
Each movement is deliberate, careful, as if he's handling something precious rather than the tangled mess of brown strands that hasn't seen proper washing in longer than I care to admit.
The lavender-scented water darkens my hair to near-black, and I watch droplets fall from the ends to rejoin the bath with soft splashes. His fingers work through the wet strands, untangling knots with patience I never expected from someone who commands with such authority.
I clear my throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet intimacy of the chamber. "Zerion?"
"Yes, sweet?"
The endearment sends warmth through me that has little to do with the heated water. I lean forward slightly, away from the solid warmth of his chest, needing distance to voice the concern that's been gnawing at me since the moment we crossed this threshold.
"This..." The words lodge in my throat like poorly swallowed bread. "This isn't a transaction, right?"
His hands still in my hair, water dripping steadily from his fingers back into the tub. "What do you mean?"
I sigh, the sound carrying years of wariness about the motives of men with power. The steam rises between us, creating a hazy barrier that somehow makes the confession easier.
"I don't want this to turn into what the village thinks it already is.
" My voice comes out smaller than intended, stripped of the sharp confidence I usually wield like armor.
"A stupid human girl selling herself, her body, in exchange for a place to live.
Trading favors for my siblings' safety and full bellies. "
The silence lingers between us, broken only by the soft crackle of logs shifting in the fireplace. His hands resume their gentle ministrations, combing through my hair with steady strokes that somehow anchor me despite the vulnerability of the moment.
"You think I'm purchasing your affection with shelter and food."
It's not a question, and the flat tone makes my stomach clench. "I think..." I pause, choosing words carefully. "I think powerful men often believe everything has a price. And desperate women often discover they're willing to pay it."
His fingers pause at my temple, tracing a path along my hairline with featherlight pressure. "And you believe you're desperate enough to pay mine."
"I don't know what I believe anymore." The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. "Six months ago, I would have spit in the face of any noble who looked at me twice. Now I'm sitting naked in your bath, letting you wash my hair like I'm something worth cherishing instead of using."
He tucks away my hair. "You are worth it."