"What kind of value?"
He stopped walking, turned to study her. "The kind that makes me aware when my property requires maintenance. The kind that makes me take eyes from those who damage it. The kind that changes things, slowly."
Maintenance. Damage. He made her sound more like a car than a person.
"But I'm still property." She couldn’t help but taste the bitterness of the admission on her tongue. She wasn’t sure who she was more furious at—him for his cruelty or herself for her naivety despite all she’d endured.
"Yes. As you’ve been since the beginning." His words were simple, direct, no different than the past, but for some reason today they cut a little deeper than they had before. They felt more casual, more dismissive somehow. She shouldn’t have cared, but a small part of her did, and she hated herself for it. "But property I maintain. Property that is worth a cushion in front of the entire court." His thumb traced her jaw. "That's more than any human has been in centuries."
What did that truly mean?
Was she simply reading into things that weren't there? The way he'd pulled her under the covers had felt like care and concern, but he'd explained it away as noise and sensitive hearing. The self-defense lessons had seemed protective, but perhaps they were justmaintaining his property's ability to survive. Even now, his thumb on her jaw, was it affection or just checking his possession for damage?
Why did she care?
"The court won't know what to make of it," she said, voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest.
"Good. Soon they will realize that touching you means more than just violating property rights." He resumed walking. "It means challenging my judgment about what deserves my attention."
"And I deserve it?" She asked before she could stop herself.
"You drew blood from Malachar. Survived my bone garden. Continue to surprise me." He glanced at her. "That's worth a cushion, at least."
Worth a cushion. The words echoed in her mind, mocking. She'd been so pathetically grateful for it too—sinking down with relief while the court watched. She had looked exactly like what she was: a pet grateful for the smallest comfort from its master.
The worst part was the warmth in her chest, still purring its satisfaction. She was losing the ability to distinguish between imprisonment and care, between possession and protection. Every small mercy felt like affection when it was, as he himself said, just practical maintenance.
Soon she wouldn't even remember why she should want to escape, wouldn't remember that normal people didn't consider cushions generous gifts. Was that his intention? Was she already so thoroughly twisted that she saw tenderness in simple ownership?
"Something wrong?" Eliam asked, fingers pressing against her spine through the dress.
She hadn’t realized it, but she’d stopped walking. His question broke through the spiral. "No," she lied.
"Mm." He didn't sound convinced, but didn't press. Instead, he guided through corridors she was slowly beginning to recognize, stopping at an ornate door that stood beside another, grander entrance, his own chambers, she realized. "Your new rooms."
He opened the door, revealing a space that took her breath away despite everything. Larger than her previous quarters, furnished with dark wood and deep greens, a massive bed that could have slept four, and windows overlooking the forest canopy. Everything pristine and untouched, waiting for an occupant who might never return.
"Rest," he said, not entering, not looking at her directly. "I have matters to attend to."
The adjoining rooms. Another thing she'd read too much into. Proximity for convenience, not closeness. Access when he wanted it, not because he wanted her near.
She stepped into the room and caught her reflection in an ornate, full length mirror—elaborate hair, the beautiful dress in his colors, the collar at her throat. She looked like what she was: a possession. Maintained, noticed, granted small comforts, but still unquestionably owned.
The distinction mattered less than it should have.
That was the real danger, wasn't it? Not that she was property, but that she was beginning to find comfort in it, to see a cushion as kindness and mistake control for care.
No. She wouldn’t forget. It wasn’t over yet.
There was still Thomas. He would understand and remind her what it meant to be human, what freedom actually looked like. Tonight, when she brought the food she'd promised, she'd remember what she was fighting for.
She had to, before she forgot entirely.
Before a cushion at Eliam’s feet became enough.
Chapter twenty-four
The leaf warmed between Briar's palms as she crept through the darkening corridors. Her pockets held treasures more precious than gold. She carried with her half a roll from dinner, an apple she'd managed to palm, a small wedge of cheese wrapped in her napkin. Not much, but for someone who'd been starving for years it would certainly seem like a feast.
