"There's going to be a dinner tomorrow night," he said finally, when the plates were empty. "Lord Malus will arrive by evening. You'll sit beside him, of course, as his gift, but I want you presentable."
He gestured to one of the servants, who brought forward a gown draped over her arms. It was exquisite—white as fresh snow with silver embroidery that looked like frostpatterns. The neckline was high, with a collar of white fur that would hide both Eliam's marks and the silver collar completely.
"You'll wear this. Your hair will be properly styled. You'll sit quietly while we discuss the division of the Forest Court." He stood, moving around the table to stand behind her chair. His hands settled on her shoulders, thumbs pressing against the collar. "And if you behave—truly behave—perhaps I'll allow the sprite to stay in a warmer bowl during dinner."
The casual cruelty of using Frederick as leverage made her vision blur with frustrated tears. The collar sensed her rage and fed on it, leaving her gasping.
"Oh, and one more thing." His hands slid from her shoulders to her throat, fingers tracing the collar through her hair. "I've cleared my afternoon schedule. I thought we might... continue getting reacquainted. After all, we have so much time to make up for."
The promise in his voice made her stomach turn. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head—possessive, mocking—then straightened.
"Bathe. Fix your hair. Try to look less like something dragged from the dungeons." He moved toward the door, pausing to look back. "I'll return after lunch. Be ready."
The door locked behind him, leaving her shaking at the table. Frederick had pressed himself against the side of the bowl closest to her, offering what comfort he could. She touched the water gently, feeling his cool presence respond.
"I don't know how to stop him," she whispered. "The collar won't let me fight. And if I try, he'll hurt you. Or them."
Frederick's bubble strengthened marginally, a tiny show of defiance that probably cost him greatly. But it was something. Even here, even dying slowly in the cold, he was still fighting in his small way.
She looked at the beautiful dress that would hide all evidence of who she really belonged to, then at the locked door Malachar would return through in just a few hours. The warmth in her chest pulsed weakly, reaching south toward forests and thorns, toward a lord who didn't even know where she was.
Chapter eleven
The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting long shadows across the floor. Briar sat at the vanity, her reflection showing someone she barely recognized. The servants had dressed her like a doll—efficient hands fastening the silver buttons, adjusting the fit, styling her hair into something elegant and unfamiliar. She'd stood passive through it all because fighting would only drain her, and she needed whatever strength she could preserve.
The dress was deep blue, almost black, fitted perfectly to her frame. Which disturbed her more than if it hadn't fit at all. How long had Malachar been planning this? How many measurements taken while she slept?
Frederick floated more actively in his bowl, now positioned on the vanity where she could see him. She'd added the remaining hot water from the tea service after the servants left, and the warmth had revived him considerably. His bubble was nearly normal size, and he'd even managed a few small spouts of water when she'd whispered to him—his version of conversation.
The lock turned.
Malachar entered without announcement, closing the door with deliberate care. His eye swept over her, taking in the styled hair, the proper dress, the straight posture.
"Much better." He moved into the room with the confidence of ownership. "You clean up remarkably well when you apply yourself."
She said nothing, watching him in the mirror as he approached. The collar sat heavy against her throat, hidden beneath lace but ever-present.
"Stand. Let me see you properly."
She rose, turning to face him. He circled her slowly, occasionally adjusting something—a fold of fabric, an escaped strand of hair. Each touch was light but lingering, claiming territory.
"Tomorrow's dinner will be significant," he said, stopping in front of her. "The formal transfer of ownership, so to speak. Malus is quite eager to receive his gift."
"I'm not—"
"Not what? Not property?" He smiled, reaching out to trace the line of the collar through the fabric. "This says otherwise. As does the mark beneath it. As does your presence here."
His fingers moved from the collar to her jaw, tilting her face up. "You've been passed from keeper to keeper. The Forest Lord, the Star Prince, that Drak creature. Now me and soon Malus. At what point will you accept what you are?"
The truth of it sat heavy in her stomach. Shehadbeen passed between them, each claiming ownership in their own way. The collar sensed her despair and fed lightly, just enough to keep her docile.
"Nothing to say?" His thumb traced her lower lip. "You were more spirited that night in the Forest Court. Before your protector arrived."
The reminder of that night, of what he'd tried to do, made the warmth in her chest contract with terror. He felt her tense and smiled.
"Yes, you remember. The way you struggled, bit my hand. Drew blood." He held up his hand, showing faint scars from her teeth. "I kept these. A memento."
He moved closer, backing her against the vanity. The mirror was cold against her back.
