Eliam stood by the fire, dressed in a shade of dark green that made his pale skin glow in the strange light. He turned at her entrance, and something flickered across his face too quickly to read.
"Red suits you," he said finally.
Her face grew flushed and she had to force herself not to cover the vast expanses of skin the dress left revealed. "Did you have fun picking this out?"
"I have people for that." He moved to pull out a chair, an oddly gallant gesture considering. "Though I did specify the color."
"Why red?"
"Because," he said as she reluctantly took the offered seat, "I wanted to see you in something other than forest colors. Something that marks you as different from everything else here."
"Mission accomplished. I look like a whore."
His hand came to rest on her bare shoulder, just for a moment. The touch burned cold.
"You look like what you are," he said softly. "Mine to dress as I please."
Anger and humiliation warred in her chest as she clenched her hands in her lap, feeling the weight of his gaze pressing against her exposed skin. This was going to be a very long dinner.
The first course appeared without servants: bowls of something that might have been soup if soup could be made from moonlight and frost. It steamed despite being cold to the touch.
"Sit straighter," Eliam said before she could reach for her spoon. "You slouch. Are all humans so sloppy?"
Her spine stiffened automatically at the command. The position made the dress gap more, but pointing that out would only amuse him.
"Better." He lifted his own spoon with elegant precision. "Watch."
She watched him take a sip, the careful angle of his wrist, the way he barely parted his lips. Everything deliberate. Everything perfect.
"Now you."
The soup tasted impossible—cold and sharp and bright all at once. It didn’t make sense, but she had stopped trying to make sense of things in this place of lies and misdirection. Instead, she tried to mirror his movements, but her hand trembled slightly.
"Your sister," he said after a few minutes, his voice casual. "Allegra, isn’t it? Tell me about her."
The spoon clattered against the bowl. "Why?"
"Because I asked." He took another measured sip. "Unless you'd prefer discussing your mother? June, wasn't it? The woman who spent twenty-five years jumping at shadows."
Anger curled in her chest. "Leave them out of this."
"They're already in this. Your sister lives because of my generosity. Your mother's sanity hangs by threads I could cut." He set down his spoon with precise delicacy. "Now. Tell me about Allegra."
The mark pulsed warning. Briar forced her hands steady.
"She's twelve," she said quietly. "Loves terrible music. Talks too much. Laughs at her own jokes."
"You raised her?"
She nodded, her throat tight.
"While your mother did what? Descend into madness?"
"She wasn't mad." The words came out sharper than Briar intended. "She was haunted. By you. By what you did to her."
"WhatIdid?" His smile was mocking and Briar had to resist the urge to throw something at him. "I saved her life. Pulled her from twisted metal and certain death. Is that not worthy of gratitude?"
"Gratitude doesn't survive twenty-five years of pain."
