"You'll conduct your business with me, Malachar. Only me."
She didn't look back as she left, but she felt both their gazes following her. The doors closed with finality, leaving her in the corridor with her heart racing and too many questions.
The walk back to her chambers felt endless. Every shadow could hide winter colors, every corner could conceal a threat. But the corridors were empty, most of the castle attending to the aftermath of such an important visit.
She pressed her hand against the warmth in her chest, trying to calm its agitation. What were they discussing? Real border disputes? Or was she just an excuse for a different kind of negotiation?
Her rooms were blessedly quiet when she entered. She locked the door, a useless gesture really, but the soft click gave hollow comfort. The silver dress had become unbearable, clinging to her skin with the reminder of how Malachar had looked at her, how his fingers had traced her arm.
She peeled it off with shaking hands, letting it pool on the floor like discarded moonlight. The relief of being free from it, from the weight of their gazes, made her knees weak.
The bath had been drawn, servants always seemed to know, and steam rose invitingly. She sank into it gratefully, letting the hot water ease muscles she hadn't realized were knotted with tension.
What game were they playing now? Eliam and Malachar, circling each other with words sharp as blades. She'd been the prize, the provocation, but now she was irrelevant. Sent away while they discussed whatever fae lords discussed.
The warmth in her chest pulsed with unease that matched her own.
She stayed in the bath until the water cooled, then dried herself with mechanical movements. She dressed for bed, choosing from the silk nightgowns that filled her wardrobe. The longest one she could find still only reached mid-thigh, the material so thin it might as well have been mist. A robe hung on a hook—deep green velvettrimmed with gold, heavier than the nightgown but still designed to reveal more than conceal when she moved.
Still, Briar pulled it on, needing its weight even if it was another of Eliam's pretty cages.
She busied herself with braiding her damp hair, trying not to think about whether he would come to her tonight, hating that she was listening for his footsteps, hating more that their absence disappointed her. When had she started wanting his attention? When had his presence become something she anticipated rather than dreaded?
The rooms felt too quiet, too empty. She paced to the window, then back to the door. Maybe she could take a walk, get some air. The castle gardens were beautiful at night, and if she happened to encounter him returning from his meeting...
She moved to the door, hand on the handle when a knock came from the other side, making her freeze. Her heart lifted despite herself.
He'd come after all.
"I thought you'd—" The words died in her throat.
Malachar leaned in her doorway, both eyes taking in her appearance with interest. The robe barely belted, her hair braided for sleep, the way her hand had gone to her throat in surprise. Her fingers curled into the edges of the velvet and she pulled it more tightly around herself.
"Thought I'd what?" His voice was pleasant, conversational. "My apologies for the late hour. May I come in? I wanted to apologize for my behavior at dinner."
Every instinct screamed danger, but refusing would be admitting fear. And he was just standing there, hands visible, a respectable distance between them.
"Lord Malachar, it's late—" she started to close the door, but his hand caught the edge, stopping it but not forcing it back open. Not yet.
"Just a moment of your time," he said, stepping inside before she could object, though he left the door hanging open behind him. A courtesy that should have reassured her but somehow didn't. "I realize I may have overstepped earlier. The wine, the border tensions... they brought out the worst in me."
Briar moved away, trying to maintain distance without appearing anxious. "Of course I understand. Apology accepted. Now if you'll—"
"That's a lovely robe." He’d drifted further into the room, not toward her but to the side, examining her bookshelf with casual interest. "Forest colors suit you. Though I imagine everything does."
Her pulse quickened. Should she scream? What if his intentions were simply to apologize and she offended him? She glanced toward the open door. Could she make it past him? He was studying a volume of poetry, seemingly absorbed, but his positioning was too perfect to be accidental.
"Your master has interesting taste in reading material for his pets." He pulled out a book, flipping through it idly. "Tell me, do you actually read these? Or are they just decorations?"
"I read." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Intelligent as well as beautiful." He shelved the book, turning to face her fully. "No wonder he's so protective. Though I find myself wondering… does he visit you often? Here, in these private chambers?"
The question slithered between them, too intimate, too knowing.
"That's not—"
"Your concern? Or mine?" He moved closer, still casual, still maintaining that veneer of courtly conversation. "I'm simply curious about the dynamics. You were waiting for him, weren't you? When I knocked?"
