"Beautiful," Síocháin murmured. "His lordship has exquisite taste in frames."
Frames. Not dresses. Frames for displaying what lay beneath.
She put it on with Síocháin's help, the creature's too-long fingers surprisingly gentle as they navigated the complex construction. The bodice lifted and shaped, the beading cold against her skin. The skirts settled like mist, weightless but ever-present.
"Now," Síocháin said, guiding her back to the vanity. "The hair."
Those impossible fingers began to work, sectioning and weaving with inhuman precision. Briar watched in the mirror as her dark hair transformed into something breathtaking—braids that seemed to defy gravity, twisting up and away from her neck in patterns that resembled thorned vines. Every mark was exposed, framed by the elaborate style like art in a gallery.
"He will want to add something," Síocháin murmured, fingers still working. "He always does. A chain, perhaps. Or flowers. He likes to mark what's his in layers."
"You've done this before?"
"Prepared humans for court?" Those pearl nails scraped gently against her scalp as another section was gathered. "Not for many years. The last one..." She paused, fingers stilling. "Well. You wear the marks better."
"What happened to the last one?"
"What happens to all things that cannot adapt." Síocháin resumed her work. "Though you seem sturdier than most." The final pin slid into place. "Perfect."
“I will be the judge of that.”
Eliam filled the doorway, dressed for court in black that seemed to devour light, the hems threaded with deep gold. A crown of dark wood and thorns rested on his brow, making him look like what he was—an ancient king come to inspect new territory.
His gaze traveled from her elaborate hair down the dress, lingering where the layers turned gossamer.
"Síocháin," he said without looking away from Briar. "Exceptional as always."
The creature bowed low. "The canvas made it easy, my lord."
"Leave us."
Síocháin vanished like smoke, the door closing silently behind her.
"Stand," he commanded softly. "Turn."
She rose on unsteady legs, turning slowly, the layers sliding over one another to reveal and conceal in waves. When she faced him again, his eyes had darkened.
"Again. Slower."
This turn was deliberate torture. She could feel his gaze on her like a touch, heard the way his breathing changed when the light caught the gossamer layers just right. The dress was beautiful, yes, but it was his reaction that made her hyperaware of every movement, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his hands flexed as if fighting the urge to reach for her.
"Come here."
She approached and he straightened from the doorway, circling her with predatory focus.
"The hair is perfect," he murmured, fingers ghosting over an exposed bruise. "Shows everything. But—" He stopped, eyes narrowing at her throat. "You still bear his marks."
She touched the fading frost-burns. "They're almost gone—"
"Almost isn't gone." He moved behind her, fingers tracing where Malachar's ice had touched. "I can still see where he touched you. Still smell winter on your skin."
"I bathed."
"Not well enough." His mouth found her throat, just above the lingering frost marks. "These need to be covered. Erased. Replaced."
Before she could respond, he bit down. Not gentle like that morning's lesson—this was claiming, deliberate. She gasped, hands coming up instinctively, but he caught her wrists.
"Hold still," he commanded against her skin. "Every mark he left needs one of mine over it."
