"Do you dream of it every night? The dark forests?"
His expression grew more guarded. "Not every night. Sometimes I dream of dawn instead. Of light breaking through." He stepped back. "Goodnight, Briar."
"Goodnight."
She closed the door and leaned against it, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall. The room felt too quiet after his company, too empty. She moved through the motions of preparing for bed, washing her face in the basin and carefully hanging the golden dress in the wardrobe before braiding her hair to keep it from tangling. Perhaps it was something in the air, or the food, or both, but it felt as though her hair had grown inches practically overnight.
The nightshift someone had left for her was soft white linen, nothing like the red silk Eliam often chose. She pulled it on, trying not to think about the differences, about which kindness felt more dangerous.
When she finally slipped between the covers, the bed was too soft after nights on Eliam's firm mattress, the pillows too numerous. She pushed half of them onto the floor and curled on her side, watching moonlight play across the ceiling.
Sleep did not come quickly, her mind churning over golden flowers and gentle kindness and the mark that lay quiet as a held breath on her arm.
When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of stars.
Then the stars went out.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Cold dread flooded through her as she spun in the darkness, not the complete black of the oubliette but something worse. A darkness that moved, that breathed, that had eyes the color of winter forests.
Eliam stood three feet away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hurt.
"Just a dream," she whispered.
"Is it?" He circled her slowly, and she felt it, the weight of his presence, the cold that radiated from him. "Dreams are doors, little thief. And you left so many open when you ran away."
"I wasn’t trying to run away, something was down there—."
"Semantics." He stopped in front of her, beautiful and terrible in the not-light of the dream. "Tell me, how does my cousin's hospitality compare? Does his bread taste better without the fear? Do his stars shine brighter without bars?"
She backed away, but in dreams, distance meant nothing. He was always exactly three feet away. Always just out of reach. Always too close.
"Savor each moment," he continued, his voice soft and dangerous. "The taste of that bread. The warmth of that tea. The kindness of strangers who think they're saving you." His smile was cruel perfection. "You'll need those memories later if you’re going to survive."
"To survive what?"
"Oh, little thief." He laughed, and the sound hurt. "If I told you, you'd never sleep again. And you need your rest and your strength. For when you return."
"If I return."
"When." No room for argument in the word. "The law is the law. Three nights to settle your soul, and then you're mine again. Forever and always, but now..." He tilted his head, studying her. "Now you'll know what you're missing. Now you'll have tasted freedom just long enough to make captivity burn."
"You're a monster."
"Yes. Your monster." He reached out, fingers extending toward her face. "Shall I show you what I've planned? Just a taste? A preview of coming attractions?"
Terror locked her muscles as she tried to jerk back, but dream logic held her still. His fingers were inches from her skin, and she could feel cold radiating from them, could sense the cruelty coiled behind his beautiful face.
"Briar!"
She gasped awake, thrashing against hands that held her shoulders. Real hands. Warm hands.
"It's me," Arion said, features resolving in the moonlight streaming through her window. "You were crying out. I heard you from the hall."
She was shaking. Sweat cooled on her skin, making her shiver. The mark on her arm pulsed hot and angry, no longer quiet. No longer patient.
"Just a dream," she managed.
