Chapter seventeen
The garden was dying beautifully. That was the worst part—how lovely autumn made everything look even as it killed. Briar sat on a stone bench, watching leaves spiral down like drops of blood and gold, trying to prepare herself for tonight. Her fingers worried at the wool of her dress, picking at a loose thread.
She had to seduce him. Had to make him believe she wanted him. The thought made her stomach clench, made the bruises on her thighs ache with memory.
"Hiding?"
She jerked, her head rising sharply, she hadn't heard him approach. Malus stood behind the bench, close enough that she could smell the autumn on him—dying leaves and smoke and something sweet tainted by rot.
"Just thinking," she managed, starting to stand.
His hand settled on her shoulder, keeping her seated. "No need to get up." He moved around the bench, his fingers trailing along her shoulder, across the nape of her neck. "I've just come from the bone garden. Did you know Eliam cultivated new species there? Flowers that grow from marrow. Quite creative, really. Disturbing, but creative."
He sat beside her, too close. His thigh pressed against hers through the wool dress.
"You look better today," he observed, tilting her chin up with one finger. "Less... fragile."
"I slept," she lied.
"Good." His thumb traced her jaw, found the faded bruise at her throat. "This is healing well. Though I think I prefer you marked."
The warmth stirred in her chest, recognizing the threat. She forced herself to stay still, not pull away. If she showed hesitation now, if she showed fear, it would be harder to convince him later.
"Are you looking forward to tonight?" His hand moved to her throat, fingers spanning the places he'd bitten. Light pressure, just enough to make her pulse jump.
She had to start somewhere. had to begin the performance. "I've been thinking."
"Oh?" His fingers stilled but didn't leave her throat.
"About fighting you and how pointless it is." The words wanted to lodge in her throat but she forced herself to keep speaking. "You won. The throne is yours. Eliam is caged. And I'm..." She made herself meet his eyes. "I'm tired of fighting."
Interest flickered in his expression. His hand shifted, cupping her jaw. "Is that so?"
"He humiliated me. Sent his huntsman to torment me. Then let you take me." Each word carefully chosen, building the lie. "Maybe I've been loyal to the wrong brother."
Malus studied her face, searching for deception. Then he kissed her.
It was different from before—less violent, more testing. She made herself respond, her lips parting under his, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. The warmth recoiled, pulling deep, but she couldn't let him feel her contempt.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, claiming. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head for better access. She kissed him back, hating herself, hating the small sound he made of pleased surprise.
When he pulled back, his pupils were dilated. "You taste different. Less afraid."
"I told you. I'm tired of fighting."
"Show me." His hand found her waist, pulled her closer. "Show me how tired you are."
She turned into him, her hand sliding up to his neck before tangling in his hair, and kissed him this time. She made herself the aggressor even as her skin crawled. His surprised exhale against her mouth felt like victory and violation all at once.
His hands roamed, finding the curve of her breast through the wool, her hip, the inside of her thigh. The warmth flared with each touch, golden light threatening to show beneath her skin. She pressed closer, using the movement to hide the light, to distract him.
"Eager," he murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding higher on her thigh.
She caught his wrist, not pulling away but stilling him. "Not here."
"No?" His fingers pressed harder, a warning. “Shy?”
"You deserve better than a garden liaison." She made her voice soft, wanting. "Tonight. When we have time. When I can properly..." She let the sentence trail off, implications hanging.
