Her eyes were pale green, the exact shade of lichen on frozen stone, and her cheekbones could have cut glass. She wore a gown that seemed woven from frost-touched pine needles and winter moss.
"Lady Sarelle." Eliam's tone gave nothing away. "Have you business with the court?"
"Merely observations." She circled the dais with predatory grace, gaze fixed on Briar. Long fingers ended in nails like chips of dark ice, and when she smiled, her teeth were just slightly too sharp. "Your new pet is quite lovely, for a human. Though I heard she gave you some trouble? Something about rebels and a moonlit chase?"
"Careful," Eliam said softly.
But Lady Sarelle continued, voice pitched to carry. "Three days, wasn't it? Three days you gave her, and she used them to run. To let another male touch what you'd marked." She paused as though weighing what she said next against the potential consequences. "One wonders if the Forest King has grown... lenient in his years. Soft, perhaps."
Absolute silence fell. Even breathing seemed to stop.
Dread coiled in Briar's stomach as she felt the change in Eliam. His hand, still resting near her head, curled slowly into a fist.
"Soft," he repeated, each letter precise.
"I merely speak what others whisper," Lady Sarelle said with feigned innocence. "That perhaps the legends of your ruthlessness were... exaggerated. After all, she lives. She sits at your feet whole and unbroken despite her defiance. What message does that send?"
The wood beneath Briar's knees groaned. She glanced up to see Eliam's other hand gripping his throne's arm hard enough to crack bone.
"You question my methods?" His voice was terrifyingly calm.
"I question nothing, your grace. But others might wonder—"
"Rise."
The command wasn't directed at Lady Sarelle. Terror shot through Briar as she realized he meanther. She struggled to stand on numb legs, pins and needles shooting through her feet.
Eliam rose as well, fluid and predatory. "You think me soft? Lenient?" He caught Briar's chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. Cold fury burned in their depths. "Shall I demonstrate otherwise?"
"My lord—" someone started.
"Silence."
His grip tightened, and she felt the court lean in collectively. Hungry for the spectacle Lady Sarelle had just given him an excuse to provide.
His free hand came to rest at her throat. Possessive and threatening.
"Soft?" he asked the court at large. "Shall I show you soft?"
The vines began to grow.
Horror flooded through her as they erupted from the floor around her feet, twining up her legs with thorns that caught and held. Not piercing, not yet, but present. The dress tore as they climbed, baring skin to the court's eager gaze.
"Don’t," she whimpered, feeling the vines beginning to tighten.
"Louder."
“Please, don’t." The word scraped past the hand at her throat.
"Don’t?" He leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear. "You dare beg for mercy when you should be begging for forgiveness, little thief?"
The vines reached her waist, climbing higher to encircle her ribs. Where they touched, they left marks, not wounds but patterns on her skin. Claiming her before all who watched.
"I'm sorry," she gasped.
"For?"
"F-for running. For—" her words faltered as his hand fell away and a vine rose to take its place, curving around her throat, thorns pressing just shy of breaking skin. "F-for trying to break our bargain."
