The journey back to her room passed in fragments—cold corridors, stairs that made her stomach lurch,
"Such trouble you've caused," he said against her hair. "But we'll correct that. Tomorrow you'll kneel beside Malus's chair and thank him for his mercy. You'll wear the gown I chose and speak only when spoken to."
Another turn, another hallway, each looking identical through her blurred vision. The collar pulled steadily at what little strength remained, interpreting even her unconscious resistance as defiance.
"The Drak will be dead by morning," Malachar continued. "The cold is killing him by degrees. Your huntsman might last longer, but even fae blood freezes eventually."
She tried to speak, to protest, but her tongue wouldn't obey. Only a soft sound escaped, wordless and weak.
"Yes, you're upset about that," he observed, shouldering open a door she recognized even through her haze—her prison room. "Perhaps if you'd simply accepted your situation, they wouldn't be suffering. Their pain is your selfishness made manifest."
He dropped her on the bed without gentleness, then stood back. He watched her for a moment and then began removing his jacket, folding it with deliberate care over the chair. The message was clear in every unhurried movement.
There was no escape.
He unbuttoned his cuffs while watching her watch him, taking his time with each small button. When he rolled the sleeves up, she could see old scars marking his forearms, thin white lines that looked like frost patterns against his pale skin.
"You're fighting it," he observed as he moved closer to the bed. "Good. It makes breaking you more fun."
She managed to pull herself higher against the headboard, but there was nowhere left to retreat. The pollen was wearing off and she could feel clarity returning, but the collar compensated for her increased resistance by draining harder.
His hand reached for her ankle and his fingers closed around it like a shackle. His thumb found the hollow beneath the bone and pressed lightly, just enough to make his possession clear.
"Still so warm," he murmured while his touch traveled upward to her calf. "Even now, even here in my domain, you burn with summer heat."
She tried to pull away but he held firm, bringing his other hand to rest on her knee with deliberate slowness. The touch was light but promised so much worse.
"I can feel your pulse racing here," he said, his fingers tracing the inside of her knee before moving higher to her thigh. "Your body tells such honest stories, even when your mouth lies. What else is it going to tell me?"
The fire went out and with it the temperature began to plummet.
This wasn't Malachar's winter cold. This was the chill of deep forest shadow, of places where sunlight never reached, of roots that grew down into the earth's bones.
"I thought losing an eye would have taught you not to touch what's mine."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Malachar's hand released her ankle as he spun toward the shadows gathering in the corner, shadows that shouldn't have existed with afternoon light still coming through the windows.
"But apparently," Eliam stepped from the darkness like he was built from it, and he was wrong, all wrong, too tall and crowned with antlers that weren't quite there, "you need a more thorough lesson."
Chapter twelve
At the sound of Eliam’s voice, the warmth in Briar's chest exploded outward, reaching for him with desperate intensity. It pulled toward him so hard she gasped, and the collar interpreted this as the ultimate defiance. She let out a whimper as it began draining her very essence at a rate that bordered on agony.
"Eliam." Malachar's voice stayed controlled, though his hand had gone to his blade. "You're outside your territory. You are in my lands now, you have no authority here."
"Authority?" Eliam tilted his head, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. "You have her in your bed. You have your hands on her. And you speak to me of boundaries?"
Malachar raised his hand and ice coalesced from the air itself, forming a blade as long as his forearm, its edge gleaming. "She was given to me. A gift for my assistance in necessary changes."
"Given? She was stolen." Eliam moved further into the room, and darkness followed him, eating the afternoon light from the windows.
Briar tried to speak, but the drain was too intense. She could feel it pulling her life away in steady draws, the warmth's desperate reach toward Eliam only making it worse. Her fingers were going numb, her breath coming in shorter gasps.
Malachar struck first, his blade cutting through the air where Eliam had been. But Eliam dissolved into the shadows, reforming behind him, thorns erupting from his hands. One clipped Malachar's shoulder, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood that steamed in the cold air.
"You've gone soft in your forest," Malachar snarled, twisting to face him. Ice spread from his feet across the floor, racing toward Eliam. "Forgotten how to fight without your trees."
They collided in the center of the room, ice meeting shadow, winter against forest. Malachar's blade shrieked against Eliam's thorns, both drawing blood, neither gaining clear advantage. They were matched, two Great Lords at the height of their fury, and the room itself groaned under the pressure of their power.
