"Shall we continue where we left off? No interruptions this time. No Forest Lord bursting through shadows." His hands settled on her waist, holding her in place. "Just you and I, finishing what we started."
"Don't." The word came out weak, the collar already draining the defiance from it.
"Don't?" He leaned closer, his breath cold against her cheek. "But we have such history, you and I. That kiss we shared—do you remember the taste of winter?"
One hand moved to her hair, pulling pins free until it tumbled down her back. "Better. You look less severe this way."
She tried to turn her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. The patch gleamed in the afternoon light, and she wondered if he could see her elevated temperature, the fear radiating from her skin.
"I can see your heart racing," he confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. "The heat blooming across your skin. Fascinating, really. Your body's responses are so... honest."
His lips brushed her jaw and made her stomach turn. The warmth in her chest recoiled, pulling away from his touch, trying to retreat somewhere safe that didn't exist.
"Stop." She pushed against his chest, but the collar immediately activated, draining the strength from her arms.
"Still fighting." He caught her wrists easily, pressing them against the mirror on either side of her. "The collar will train you out of that eventually. But for now..."
He kissed her.
It was like that first time—cold, invasive, and wrong. His tongue forced past her lips, bringing winter into her mouth. The taste of frost and something metallic made her try to pull back, but she was trapped between him and the vanity.
The warmth in her chest thrashed, desperate and wild. It pushed against the collar's suppression, fighting to respond to the threat. She could feel it building, something beyond the collar's ability to drain—not her anger but the magic itself, acting independently.
Malachar pulled back, studying her face. "You taste different than before. Sweeter. Fear, perhaps? Or resignation?"
His hands released her wrists to travel down her arms, over her ribs, settling at her waist again. "Let's see what else has changed."
He turned her roughly to face the mirror, pressing against her back. "Watch," he commanded, his reflection meeting her eyes over her shoulder. "I want you to see yourself surrender."
One hand moved to the buttons at her back, working the first one free. Then the second. She could see his fingers in the mirror, pale against the dark fabric, methodical in their violation. The dress loosened, and his hand slipped inside, fingers ice-cold against her spine.
"Your skin is so warm," he murmured against her throat, watching her face in the glass. "Like touching summer itself."
Another button. Another. The dress gaped open, and he pushed it off one shoulder, revealing the chemise beneath. His mouth found the exposed skin, teeth scraping lightly, and she watched herself flinch in the mirror—watched him smile at her reaction.
"The collar is working beautifully," he observed, his hand sliding around to her stomach, pulling her back against him. "You want to fight, I can see it in your eyes, but you simply... can't."
The warmth in her chest thrashed wildly, pushing against the collar's suppression. Not her emotion but something deeper, older, protective. She felt it gathering, coalescing, fighting to break through.
His other hand came up to her throat, fingers tracing the collar through the remaining fabric. Then lower, over her collarbones, pushing the dress off her other shoulder. It pooled at her elbows, trapping her arms.
"Perfect," he said, turning her chin to force her to keep watching. "Look at yourself. Is this what the Forest Lord saw? This mixture of fear and—"
The warmth surged.
It pushed through the collar's suppression like water breaking through a dam. Building into something she couldn't control, power gathering in her chest, behind her ribs, spreading outward.
Then the flowers began to bloom.
The first one rose from the floorboards by the vanity's leg, pale petals unfurling like a hand opening. Then another pushed through near the door, and another by the window. They were beautiful—white tinged with the faintest gold at the edges, their centers glowing softly in the afternoon light.
Malachar paused, his hands still on her shoulders, holding the dress that trapped her arms. "What is this?"
"I don't—" But she did. Memory supplied the image suddenly: Eliam in his garden at dusk, pointing out flowers that only opened as day turned to night. Dusk Blooms, he'd called them, though he'd warned her never to smell them directly. "They defend themselves with dreams," he'd said. "One breath and you'll sleep where you stand."
More of the flowers bloomed, pushing up through cracks in the stone, spreading across the floor in a slowly expanding circle. Malachar's fascination overcame his caution.
"Extraordinary." He didn't release her, but his attention had shifted to the display as his hand moved to her throat, turning her face toward him. "Can you control it? Make them stop?"
