"Everything's a lesson." He bit down gently where her pulse raced. "The question is what you're learning."
What she was learning was that her body had terrible judgment. That the warmth in her chest cared nothing for propriety or self-preservation. That when he touched her like this, deliberate and claiming, she forgot why she should resist.
"I'm learning," she managed as his mouth moved lower, "that you're very distracting."
"Good." He pulled back, satisfaction clear on his face. "Distraction can be a weapon too. Remember that when we're in court later."
"Court?" Alarm cut through the haze. "Today?"
"Of course today." He straightened her—his—shirt with casual possessiveness. "Malachar's people leave within the hour. The court will gather to see it. To whisper. To wonder." His eyes met hers. "To learn exactly where you stand."
"Where do I stand?"
His smile was sharp with promise. "Wherever I put you."
The threat-made-promise made her stomach flip. But before she could respond, he was moving away, selecting clothes from his wardrobe.
"Bathe," he commanded. "Dress in green. Do something with your hair that shows the marks." He glanced back. "All of them."
"But—"
"We'll see how well you learned about confidence." He headed for the door, paused. "Oh, and little thief? Don't lock the adjoining door. I'll want to check your appearance before court."
Then he was gone, leaving her pressed against the wall in nothing but his shirt and the memory of his mouth.
Time to prepare for whatever lesson he had planned next.
Something told her this one would be public.
The bath water reflected too much truth.
Briar stared at her body through the rippling surface, cataloguing damage like a cartographer mapping new territory. The bite at her throat had darkened to purple-black. Finger-bruises painted her arms in violent constellations. The thorned mark wound up her arm nearly to her shoulder now, each vine more intricate than the last.
But it was the fading frost-burns that made her stomach clench. Malachar's marks were still visible, faint crystalline patterns where his ice had kissed her throat, herbreasts, her wrists where he'd gripped. They'd fade completely soon, but for now they remained. Foreign signatures on skin that should only bear Eliam's claim.
She looked like a battlefield where two winters had waged war.
The knock came as she was stepping from Eliam’s tub, reaching for a towel.
"Come in," she called, expecting a brownie with fresh linens to come to put the bed back together.
Instead, a willowy creature entered—not quite fae, not quite human. Her hair fell in an impossible cascade of silver-white, and her fingers were too long, too delicate, ending in pearl-like nails.
"His lordship sends me," the creature said, her voice like water over stones. "For your hair."
"My hair?"
"He says you will display the marks. All of them. Human hands cannot achieve what is required." She moved closer, those strange fingers already reaching. "I am Síocháin. I serve the court in matters of... presentation."
The name meant nothing to Briar, but the way Síocháin said 'presentation' made her skin prickle. She sat carefully at the vanity, towel clutched tight.
"The dress first," Síocháin said, gesturing to the bed. "Hair must complement the garment."
Briar turned and stopped breathing.
The gown sprawled across her bed, deep emerald at the bodice that darkened to nearly black, then gradually lightened down the skirt until it was pale as new leaves at the hem. The bodice was fitted and decorated with intricate crystal beading that caught light like dewdrops on spider silk. Long sleeves hung separately from the shoulders, attached by delicate chains that would leave her arms essentially bare while creating the illusion of coverage.
But it was the skirt that made her hands tremble. Layer upon layer of gossamer silk, each progressively sheerer, creating depth while revealing everything beneath. When the light hit just right every curve would be suggested and she would be displayed without ever being truly naked.
