Instead, she had to spend those days pretending everything was normal while a monster she had set free planned his revenge.
Briar pressed her back against the door and slid down until she sat on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. The warmth there pulsed with agitation—sharp, staccato bursts that felt like tiny fists beating against her ribs from the inside, trying to warn someone, anyone, of the danger she'd unleashed.
She had to think. There had to be a way around the compulsion. She grabbed parchment from her desk, tried to write the word. Her hand seized mid-stroke, fingers cramping so violently she dropped the quill.
When she tried to draw a picture, just rough stairs leading down, her hand veered off course, creating meaningless scribbles instead.
Growing more desperate, she even tried to trick it, starting to write about something else and then switching her thoughts mid-sentence. The moment her intention shifted, her hand locked.
"I'm in so much trouble," she whispered to the empty room.
Chapter thirty
The next day the seamstress arrived precisely at noon, a willowy fae woman with spider-silk hair and too many fingers. She moved into Briar's sitting room with an entourage of assistants carrying bolts of fabric that seemed to shimmer between realities.
"Lady Briar." The seamstress's voice was like whispered secrets. "I am Arachne. His lordship says you are to choose freely." Her tone suggested this was as unusual to her as it was to Briar.
"I... yes." Briar stood awkwardly as the assistants began arranging their materials. "He said I could pick whatever I wanted."
"Whatever you want." Arachne's solid black eyes glimmered with interest. "How refreshing. And what is it you want, little human?"
That was the question, wasn't it? For weeks, Eliam had dressed her in gossamer nothings, in gowns that revealed more than they concealed. She should want coverage. Modesty. Something that didn't display her like a trophy.
But as Arachne began showing fabrics, Briar found herself drawn to something unexpected. Not the safe midnight blues or modest wools, but a fabric that seemed to shift between garnet and shadow.
"This one," she said, surprising herself as she reached for it. The silk felt alive under her fingers, warm as blood in sunlight, dark as wine in shadow.
"Interesting choice." Arachne studied her with those unnerving eyes. "His lordship's color, yet not. Show me your marks."
It wasn't a request. Briar pushed up her sleeve, revealing the thorned vines that now wrapped up her entire arm, across her shoulder, and spread like a dark necklace across her collarbone. The tiny white buds had multiplied, scattered like stars among the thorns.
"Magnificent," Arachne breathed. "Still growing, still reaching. And these blooms..." Her many fingers hovered just above the marks. "Do you know what you want the dress to say?"
Briar thought of Malus's words—wear something devastating. But more than that, she thought of walking into that ballroom as herself. Not Eliam's pet, not a victim, but someone who chose her fate even if that fate would inevitably lead to her ruin.
"I want it to look like armor," she said quietly. "Beautiful armor. Something that says I belong there, that I'm not helpless."
Arachne's smile was slow and knowing. "Then let me show you what we can create."
With a gesture, she began sketching in the air, magic making her vision visible. The bodice materialized first. It was structured and dramatic, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged just enough to be daring without being vulnerable. The garnet silk would be reinforced with hidden boning, creating a corseted effect that would hold her like a protective embrace.
"Now, the interesting part," Arachne murmured, adding details with her many hands. "Thorned vines, climbing from the hem. But not just decoration, these will be dimensional. Black crystal and jet beading to catch the light like dark stars, creating actual texture. They'll spiral up the skirt, growing wilder and denser as they climb."
Briar watched, mesmerized, as the design evolved. The vines weren't delicate—they were fierce, dangerous, beautiful. They wrapped around the bodice like natural armor, thorns prominent and proud.
"The sleeves," Arachne continued, "off-shoulder, as you wished. But see here—" She adjusted the design, showing how sheer garnet fabric would drape from the shoulders. "The edges will be lined with more thorns. Subtle from a distance, but up close, anyone reaching for you will see the warning."
"It's perfect," Briar breathed, but Arachne wasn't finished.
"The skirt needs drama." With a flourish, she expanded the design. Layers upon layers of fabric materialized—garnet silk over black tulle, creating an ombré effect that darkened toward the hem. The volume was massive, regal, the kind of skirt that would dominate any space she entered. "And throughout, the vines continue their climb. Notprinted or embroidered flat, but raised, dimensional. When you move, they'll seem to shift and grow."
"The back?" Briar asked, almost afraid to know.
Arachne's smile turned wicked. "A deep cut, of course. But framed by crossed lacing, black ribbon through silver grommets, like thorns holding you together. The vines will cluster here too, as if they're growing from your spine itself."
Looking at the complete design floating in the air, Briar felt her breath catch. It was everything she hadn't known she wanted. Dangerous beauty. Chosen bondage. The rose and the thorn united.
"One final detail," Arachne said, adding something at the shoulders and neckline. "Hidden among the black thorns, tiny white crystal blooms. So subtle they'll only catch the light when you move. They'll mirror the buds in your mark exactly."
