"I understand," she said.
"Good." He released her and moved to the wardrobe, pulling it open to reveal the array of clothes. His hands moved past the lighter dresses, settling on a heavier one in a warm chestnut brown trimmed with white. "This one. And you'll need stockings, proper boots, and a cloak."
She watched him gather the items, laying them out on the bed like he was preparing for battle rather than a walk in the garden. When he turned back to her, she was smiling despite herself.
"What?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Nothing. Just... thank you."
His expression suggested he didn't quite know what to do with her gratitude, so he did what he always did—turned it into action. "Come here. Let me help you dress before you decide to argue about that too."
She crossed to him, letting him pull the sleep shirt over her head. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, but his hands were warm as he helped her step into the stockings, drawing them up her legs with careful attention to the bruises on her thighs.
The dress came next, the fabric soft and warm against her skin. He worked the laces carefully, his knuckles occasionally brushing her spine as he secured them.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the bed.
She sat, and he knelt to help her with sturdy boots lined with fur. They were perhaps a size too large, but thick socks would solve that problem. He laced them with the same methodical care he brought to everything, then stood and retrieved the cloak.
It was heavy, lined with what felt like rabbit fur, and when he settled it around her shoulders, the warmth was immediate and encompassing. He fastened it at her throat, his fingers brushing the autumn marks there. She saw something dark flicker through his expression at the contact—possession and frustration both, that these marks bound her to someone else.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
He guided her to the door, his hand at the small of her back, and they stepped out into the quiet hallway. The Star Court was beautiful even in the corridors—crystalline surfaces catching light, tapestries that seemed to shift and change as they passed. But Briar's attention was on the windows they passed, each one showing more snow falling, more white covering the gardens.
When they finally stepped outside, the cold hit her immediately despite the cloak. Sharp and biting, making her breath mist in the air. But it was the good kind of cold, the kind that made her feel alive and present rather than trapped in her own fear.
The snow was falling steadily now, accumulating on the garden paths, weighing down the impossible blooms. Everything looked softer under the white blanket, quieter, like the world was holding its breath.
She walked ahead of Eliam, her boots crunching through the fresh snow, and for a moment she could almost forget about Malus and bargains and the marks at her throat. Could almost pretend she was just a girl walking through a winter garden.
Behind her, she heard Eliam's measured footsteps. When she glanced back, he was watching her with that intensity he brought to everything, but something about his expression was softer than usual. Not quite bored, despite his earlier protests about the cold and her need for rest.
She turned back to the garden, breathing in the cold air, feeling some of the weight lift from her shoulders. The snow kept falling, peaceful and clean, covering everything in white.
Then the weight came crashing back.
She remembered Malus standing in snow just like this, calling to her through the marks. Remembered walking toward him, unable to stop, unable to fight the compulsion. Remembered his hand outstretched, beckoning, promising that she would come back to him eventually.
The marks at her throat pulsed once, as if responding to the memory, and suddenly the peaceful snow felt threatening. A reminder of how close she'd come to crossing that border, to being taken.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She could feel panic building in her chest, the warmth starting to pulse frantically in response to her fear.
No.
She wasn't going to let him take this too. Wasn't going to let the memory of him poison every moment of peace she tried to find.
Briar bent down without thinking, scooping up a handful of snow, and threw it at Eliam before she could talk herself out of it.
It hit him square in the chest.
He stopped walking, looking down at the snow on his jacket, then up at her with an expression of complete disbelief.
"Did you just—" He stopped, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "My property just struck me?"
His tone was serious, but there was something underneath it. Something that wasn't quite anger.
