"By reading about dark compulsions and blood magic?" His smile was all predator. "Most humans preparing for their first fae ball focus on etiquette. Dance steps. How not to offend ancient powers with a misplaced curtsy."
"Maybe I should add those to my reading list."
"Maybe you should." He circled her table slowly, like a hunting cat. "Or maybe you should tell me what's really wrong. You've been acting like prey with a fox on its tail ever since his lordship left."
"Nothing's wrong."
"Little rabbit." His voice dropped, deceptively gentle. "I've been hunting for longer than your bloodline has existed. I know the smell of fear. The look of something trapped." He stopped directly in front of her. "What are you afraid of?"
She opened her mouth, to lie, to deflect, but found herself saying, "The ball. The court. Being presented as his... companion." All true, if not the whole truth.
"That's part of it." He leaned against her table, too close for comfort. "But not all. You're looking for something specific in these books. Something urgent."
"I told you—"
"You told me carefully crafted half-truths." He picked up another book, one about breaking fae curses. "Just like you told me about the garden. Just like you're telling me now."
Frustration boiled over. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth would be refreshing."
"I can't!" The words burst out before she could stop them.
His eyes sharpened. "Can't?"
She pressed her lips together, the compulsion tightening like a noose. Even that admission had been too close to the truth.
"Interesting," he mused. "You want to tell me but can't. Which means..." He straightened, understanding flickering across his features. "Someone's been playing with binding magic."
She couldn't confirm it. Could only sit there as he studied her with new interest.
"Well, well. Our little rabbit has been making dangerous friends." He moved toward the door, then paused. "A word of advice? Some compulsions break naturally when their purpose is fulfilled. Others..." He glanced back. "Others require the compeller's death. Do be careful which type you're dealing with."
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with useless books and a truth she couldn't speak.
She slumped in her chair, exhaustion hitting like a wave. Hours of research, nothing to show for it. It was enough to make her want to weep in frustration. Instead, she pulled another book toward her with grim determination. There had to be something. Some loophole, some ancient remedy, some way to warn Eliam before—
The pages of the new book were blank. Every single one.
She laughed, sharp and bitter. Even the library was against her.
But she reached for another anyway because what else could she do but keep trying?
The darkness in Briar's room pressed close, heavy with frustration and need. She'd kicked the covers off an hour ago, nightshift rucked up around her waist, skin flushed despite the cool air. Her fingers moved between her thighs with practiced rhythm, chasing release that danced just out of reach.
She thought of his hands and how they'd learned every sensitive place, how they could coax pleasure from her with expert precision. Her own touch felt hollow in comparison, a pale imitation of what she craved. She pressed harder, changed the angle, tried to recreate the way he'd touched her with exactly the right pressure.
Nothing.
A whimper of frustration escaped her lips. Three days. Three days since he'd touched her, and her body had forgotten how to find satisfaction without him. She was wet, aching, right on the edge, but couldn't tip over.
"Having trouble, little thief?"
Her whole body jerked, hand flying from between her legs as her eyes snapped open. He stood beside the bed, a shadow among shadows, but she could see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. No sound of door or window. Just his sudden presence and the scent of winter forest filling her lungs.
"Eliam." Heat flooded her face. How long had he been watching? "I didn't hear you come in."
"No, you wouldn’t…. you were rather distracted." He moved closer, the bed dipping as he sat on the edge. His gaze traveled over her, the way her nightshift bunched at her waist, her thighs still parted, the evidence of her arousal glistening on her fingers. "Don't stop on my account."
