"I'll take more than an eye."
The last thing she heard as they left was Malachar's cursing, promising vengeance in the old tongue. But underlaid with fear now. With the knowledge that the Forest King's cruelty had limits—but those limits were written in blood and pain.
Chapter twenty-two
The journey to Eliam's chambers passed in a blur of shadow and stone. Briar couldn't stop shaking—from cold, from shock, from the phantom feel of Malachar's frost still burning beneath her skin. She curled tighter against Eliam's chest, hating herself for how desperate she was for his warmth.
He hadn't spoken since they’d left, and that terrified her more than rage would have.
When they reached his rooms, he set her down carefully, but her legs wouldn't hold. She crumpled, catching herself on the edge of a chair before sinking to her knees.
"I thought it was you at the door,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush. A small part of her feared he believed what Malachar had claimed. That she had invited him in. “I'm sorry, I should have known, I should have been more careful—"
"Briar." He knelt in front of her, catching her face between his hands. "Stop talking."
The command held weight, and her desperate apologies cut off, though tears still ran down her cheeks.
"I opened the door for him," she whispered. "I literally invited him in—"
"You opened the door thinking it was me." His thumbs brushed away tears, gentle against the phantom frost burns. "That's quite different from inviting him."
"But I should have been more careful, should have—"
"Should have what? Known a Great Lord would force his way into your chambers?" His hands tightened slightly on her face. "You bit him hard enough to draw blood. Do you have any idea how few living humans can make such a claim?"
"You're angry." She could feel it radiating from him, controlled but present.
"I'm furious, but not at you." He released her face and stood in one fluid movement. "The failure was mine, thinking he'd respect basic boundaries. For underestimating what he'd risk to test me."
He moved to his wardrobe, pulling out clothing. When he returned with one of his shirts, black silk that would dwarf her, his hands were gentle as they helped her out of the ruined nightgown.
"He marked you," Eliam murmured, tracing where frost had burned across her throat. "Put winter on what's mine."
"I’m sorry, I know you hate—"
"If you apologize again, I'll find something better for your mouth to do."
The threat should have frightened her. Instead, the warmth pulsed with weak interest, making her flush despite everything.
He helped her into his shirt, the silk falling to her thighs. She smoothed her hands across the fabric, rolling the hem between her fingers.
"What happens now?"
"Now you're staying here, where I can watch you properly." He sat back, studying her. "Your rooms need well… they’re unlivable at the moment, and until my guests leave, I find myself disinclined to let you out of my sight."
"The court will talk—"
"Let them talk while they count Malachar's remaining eye." He stood, moving to pour wine. "After tonight's display, they'll know exactly what happens to anyone who touches you without permission."
"You took his eye for me."
"I took his eye because he dared to look at what wasn't his." He returned with two glasses, pressing one into her still trembling hands. His magic had taken care of most of the cold, but the chill that had settled in her bones would only be resolved with time. "The blood debt is for touching. If he'd gone further, I'd have taken more than an eye."
Briar brought the cup to her lips and swallowed its contents quickly. The wine burned warm down her throat, chasing away the last of Malachar's frost.
"He said you wouldn't kill him over a human toy," she said quietly. "That it would mean admitting I mattered."
Silence stretched between them before he spoke. "Malachar has always been a fool."
