"He wanted her to get rid of you." The words fell between them with calculated cruelty. "Three months along, and he was still insisting. Said they weren't ready. Said it would ruin their lives."
"You're lying." But her voice came out small, uncertain.
"Am I? Your mother refused, of course. Told him it was too late, that she already loved you." He selected a piece of fruit from a bowl that hadn't been there moments ago, examining it with casual interest. "They were already on the highway when the argument truly escalated. He kept insisting there were still options. She kept refusing."
Briar's hands clenched in her lap. "Don't—"
"She grabbed the wheel. Trying to make him pull over, to make him listen." His teeth pierced the fruit's skin. "Well. You know how that ended."
"That's not—" The words stuck in her throat.
"And afterward? After the accident, the rescue, the bargain?" He leaned forward, eyes bright with cruel satisfaction. "Did she tell you how she looked at you in those early days? This child she'd paid such a price to keep? The one her husband died trying to escape?"
"She loved me." But even as she said it, memories surfaced. Her mother's distant stares. The way she sometimes flinched when Briar entered a room. The long silences that stretched between them.
"Did she? Or did she simply endure you?" His voice softened to mock sympathy. "Every milestone you reached, your first steps, first words, first day of school, it reminded her of what he missed. What she'd chosen over him. Every time you smiled with hiseyes or laughed with his voice, she saw the accident. The blood. The choice that killed him."
"Stop." She hated the way her voice cracked.
"Twenty-five years of looking at the living reminder of the worst night of her life. Of the fight that ended everything. The child he didn't want, certainly not enough to die for." He tilted his head, studying her face. "It wasn’t my mark that drove her mad, Briar. All that guilt and the grief and the resentment, all tangled together, and there you were. Always there. Always reminding her."
"She tried to protect me—"
"Did she?" His smile turned sharper. "When I came to collect what was owed, did she fight? Did she beg? Did she offer herself instead? Did she even tell you to run?"
Briar's throat closed around the answer.
"She sent you right to me. She handed you over for Allegra without hesitation. Her second chance. The child who came from love, not tragedy. The one who didn't cost her everything." He leaned back, shaking his head slowly. "Twenty-five years she had to prepare, to find another way. Instead, she accepted it. Perhaps even welcomed it. Finally free of the reminder. Finally able to save the child who—"
"STOP!"
The word cracked through the air. The blue flames in the fireplace flared white-hot. The falling snow paused mid-air.
Eliam smiled.
"There it is," he said softly. "Human emotion is such a powerful thing, so raw and real. So much better than that careful control you use as a shield."
Tears ran in hot streaks down her cheeks, no longer trapped behind a barrier of defiant determination.
"Here you sit. Born from death and marked by darkness," he continued, voice gentle now. "Your mother knew it. Every time she looked at you, she saw what she'd paid for your life."
"You're a bastard."
"Yes. We've established that." He rose, moved around the table again. This time when he touched her face, his fingers came away wet with tears. "But an honest bastard. Would you prefer pretty lies? Should I tell you Jeffrey would be proud? That your mother didn't spend twenty-five years seeing his ghost in your face?"
She turned her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look up, to meet his steady gaze.
"The truth is kinder," he said. "You were born of a bargain. Raised by a haunted woman. And now you're exactly where you were always meant to be."
"I was meant to be free."
"No." His thumb brushed away another tear. "You were meant to be mine. From your first breath to your last. The truth is, you sit here, alive, because it is my will. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life here will be."
She had no answer. Could only sit there in the obscene dress, crying while he drank in her misery and reveled in her heartache.
"Finish your meal," he said finally, returning to his seat. "We have one more course."
"I'm not hungry."
