"This one," he said, laying it across the bed. Then, quieter, “You look best in green.”
She looked at the dress, understanding what he was doing. Marking her as his even here, even wearing borrowed clothes in another court's territory. It was possessive in a way that would have made most people balk, but for Briar it was proof that nothing fundamental had changed between them, that Malus hadn't succeeded in poisoning what they had.
"Alright," she said quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
She stood, reaching for the hem of the oversized sleep shirt someone had dressed her in, but her arms felt leaden and uncooperative. The simple act of lifting the fabric over her head became a struggle, her muscles protesting.
Eliam was there immediately, his hands covering hers. "Let me."
There was a moment where her body went rigid, instinct screaming at the memory of hands on her, removing clothes, controlling her movements. But this was Eliam. Not Malus. The difference mattered.
She lowered her arms and let him draw the shirt up and over her head, the fabric whispering against her skin. The cool air of the room hit her bare skin and she fought the urge to cover herself, to hide the bruises that still shadowed her ribs, the healing bite marks that decorated her throat and shoulder.
His eyes tracked over her body, cataloging every injury with an expression that went completely cold. She saw his jaw clench, saw murder flash through his eyes before he forced it away.
"I'm going to kill him," he said quietly, almost conversationally. "Slowly."
"Get in line," she managed, trying for levity and falling short.
His hands found her waist, steadier than hers would have been, and he guided her arms into the dress sleeves one at a time. The fabric was soft against her skin, cool silk that warmed quickly. He moved behind her to work the laces, his fingers deft and practiced.
"I've dressed you before," he said, his voice dark with amusement. "Though usually I was more interested in the reverse."
Despite everything, she felt her lips quirk slightly. "I remember."
His hands worked the laces and when he finished, his fingers lingered at the small of her back, pressing gently through the fabric.
"Turn around," he said.
She did, and found him watching her with that intense focus he brought to everything. His hands rose to her hair, finger-combing through the tangles with unexpectedgentleness. She'd expected him to leave it, to declare it fine as it was, but instead he gathered it carefully, his touch light against her scalp.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"You can't go to a council meeting looking like you just woke from a three-day fever dream." His fingers twisted her hair into something simple, securing it with pins that had been left on the bedside table. "Even if that's exactly what happened."
The intimacy of it caught her off-guard. This wasn't desire or possession or claim. This was care, quiet and practical and utterly focused on her comfort rather than his wants.
When he finished, his hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Better."
She realized she wasn't afraid of his touch right now, wasn't fighting the urge to pull away or brace for something unwanted. The panic that had gripped her when he'd kissed her earlier had faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and the steady warmth of his presence.
He noticed. She saw it in the way his expression shifted, something easing in his shoulders.
"Progress," he said softly, almost to himself.
"Small steps," she agreed.
His hands dropped from her face and he stepped back, offering his arm with surprising formality. "Ready to face the disaster waiting for us?"
She took his arm, feeling the solid strength of him beneath her fingers. "As ready as I'll ever be."
The walk to the council room took longer than it should have. Briar's legs felt disconnected from her body, each step requiring conscious effort. The day and a half of unconsciousness had let her wounds heal, but her body still remembered the blood loss, the trauma, the violation. Everything moved too slowly, like she was underwater.
The Star Court hallways gleamed around them, all crystalline surfaces and captured starlight that felt too bright, too clean after the decay of Malus's court. Her bare feet made no sound on the smooth floors, but Eliam's boots clicked with each step, marking their progress.
They reached the council room doors and Eliam paused, his hand sliding from her back to her waist. His grip tightened slightly, possessive and protective both.
"If you need to leave," he said quietly, "just say it."
