He worked methodically, mouth following the path of fading frost. Where Malachar had frozen, Eliam burned. New bruises bloomed over old, darker, deeper. By the time he finished, her throat was a masterpiece of his possession.
"Better," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "Now you look properly claimed. Only my marks. Only my violence."
She caught her reflection, her throat painted purple and black, the frost-burns completely obliterated beneath fresh evidence of Eliam's ownership.
"The dress suits you," he continued, producing something from his pocket. "But it needs one more thing."
The collar was delicate despite its dark metal—thin chains linked with tiny thorns that matched her mark, matching the crown on his brow. He fastened it around her throat, the weight negligible but the meaning heavy as mountains.
"There." His fingers traced the collar's edge. "Now you're properly dressed for court."
"This is too much—"
"This is exactly enough." He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Today they see what happens when boundaries are tested. What I'm willing to destroy to keep what's mine."
"Malachar already paid—"
"Malachar was the lesson. Today is the examination." His thumb pressed against her pulse. "We see who was paying attention."
A knock echoed, a servant announcing court would convene soon.
"Remember what I taught you," he said, offering his arm with mock courtesy. "About confidence. About power. About knowing your worth in this court."
She took his arm because refusing would only delay the inevitable. The warmth in her chest pulsed with something like anticipation.
The walk to the great hall felt endless.
"Breathe," Eliam commanded when her steps faltered. "You survived Malachar. You survived me. This is merely theater."
"Theater with consequences."
"All the best theater has consequences." His fingers pressed against her spine. "Otherwise, what's the point?"
The court doors loomed ahead, voices carrying through ancient wood. Her last chance to run, to beg off, to—
"Too late for second thoughts," he murmured, reading her tension. "They can already smell us coming. Chin up, little thief. Time to show them what's changed."
How was she supposed to do that when even she wasn’t sure?
The doors opened, and every eye in the room turned to them.
Chapter twenty-three
The great hall fell silent as they entered.
Briar felt the weight of every gaze—courtiers frozen mid-conversation, servants pausing with trays half-raised, guards shifting to better see. The dress moved with each step, layers of gossamer silk creating an ethereal effect that made her seem to float beside him. Light caught the beadwork, sending prismatic shadows across stone floors.
Eliam's hand remained steady on her back, warm through the minimal fabric. His pace never faltered, forcing the court to part before them like water before a ship's prow.
The throne sat elevated on its dais, dark wood grown from the castle itself. Briar knew her place, had knelt there before, beside the lowest step where all claimed humans belonged. Her body moved automatically, muscle memory overriding thought.
His hand tightened, stopping her descent.
"No."
The word carried through the silent hall. Not loud, but absolute. The court stirred, whispers starting like wind through leaves.
She looked up at him, confused. His expression revealed nothing, but his grip guided her up the steps instead. One. Two. Three. To stand beside the throne itself.
