But when release finally claimed them both and he gathered her against his chest with sleepy satisfaction, the circlet's weight felt like prophecy. She'd wear his crown tomorrow, dance his dances, stand at his side as chosen consort.
And then Malus would ensure she never wore anything of Eliam's again.
The warmth in her chest pulsed mournful agreement, recognizing the end approaching on silent feet. But Eliam only held her tighter, pressing kisses to her hair around the woodcarved thorns, and whispered promises about tomorrow that made her heart break with every word.
Chapter thirty-two
The seamstresses' hands fluttered around Briar like nervous birds, making final adjustments to the garnet gown that felt more like armor than silk. In the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The dress transformed her from captive to consort.
"Stop fidgeting," Arachne commanded, securing the last of the hidden pins that would keep everything in place through hours of dancing. "You'll wrinkle the silk."
Briar forced herself to be still, though her hands trembled where they rested against the bodice. The structured corset held her like an embrace, and the off-shoulder sleeves left her throat bare to display the thorned marks that had become as much a part of her as breathing. But it was the circlet that would draw every eye, marking her as his in a way that none could dispute.
"There." Arachne stepped back, her multiple eyes assessing critically. "You'll do."
"She'll more than do," one of the younger seamstresses breathed. "She looks like a queen."
The words made bile rise in Briar's throat. A queen for perhaps an hour, until Malus arrived to tear it all down. She pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to calm the nausea.
"You're pale," Arachne noted, those unnerving eyes missing nothing. "Nerves?"
"Something like that." Briar's voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Perfectly natural. Every consort feels thus before their formal presentation." Arachne made a final adjustment to the hidden slit in the skirt. "Though I suspect your nerves run deeper than simple social anxiety."
Before Briar could respond, the door opened and Thaine appeared, resplendent in formal hunting leathers. His eyes tracked over her appearance with professional assessment before settling on her face.
"It's time," he said simply. "His lordship awaits you in the ballroom."
"He's already there?" Her heart hammered harder.
"All the court gathers before the consort's entrance. You'll walk the length of the ballroom alone, present yourself to him before the throne, and perform the Opening Reverence." His smile held too many teeth. "Do try not to trip. The court does so enjoy blood in the water."
Arachne tsked at him but didn't disagree. The seamstresses gathered their supplies and fled, leaving Briar alone with the huntsman who'd watched her suspiciously for days.
"You look beautiful," Thaine said, and the unexpected compliment made her startle. "Whatever happens after tonight, know that you've exceeded every expectation."
"What do you mean, whatever happens?"
He studied her for a long moment, and she wondered if he suspected something. If he could smell the betrayal on her like a physical thing.
"The Wild Hunt changes things," he said finally. "Consorts have been known to... struggle with what comes after the pretty dances." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She had no choice but to take it, letting him lead her through corridors that seemed longer than usual. Each step brought her closer to disaster, each breath harder to draw. The warmth in her chest pulsed a familiar warning, recognizing the approaching storm.
They stopped before massive double doors, beyond which she could hear music and laughter and the rustle of a hundred fae voices. Thaine released her arm, stepping back.
"When the doors open, walk straight to the throne. Don't look at anyone else, don't acknowledge the whispers. Eyes on your lord until you reach him." He paused, then added more gently, "Whatever you've done, whatever secrets you carry, he's more forgiving than you might expect. Remember that."
Before she could ask what he meant, the doors swung open.
The ballroom blazed with light from a thousand candles, their glow caught and reflected by crystal and silver and the jewels of the gathered fae. The crowd parted before her, creating a path that seemed to stretch for miles. At the far end, on a throne of living wood and shadow, sat Eliam.
He'd dressed with clear intention. A fitted black velvet waistcoat hugged his torso, but instead of pure black, deep garnet roses were embroidered across it—the exact shade of her dress, worked in silk thread that caught the light.
Briar wondered just how long Arachne had worked to achieve such a feat in so short a time.
Beneath the waistcoat, a black silk shirt with billowing sleeves gathered at his wrists by garnet cuffs, the collar left partially unlaced to reveal the hollow of his throat. It took all she had in her to keep from staring, the warmth in her chest pulsating with unspoken approval.
