"Go on," Malus said softly. "Touch her."
Liefand's hand extended, trembling with what might have been fear or anticipation or both. His fingers hovered over her knee, then made contact—cold, unwelcome, making her flinch.
Malus moved.
One moment he was relaxed beneath her, the next his hand had shot out and closed around Liefand's throat. The lord made a choked sound of surprise, his hand jerking away from Briar's skin.
"Did you really think," Malus said, his voice still conversational, almost friendly, "that I was offering?"
Liefand's hands scrabbled at Malus's grip, his face reddening. "Your Majesty—I—you said—"
"I said touch her. I wanted to see if you would." Malus's smile didn't waver. "You did."
"Please—"
"Look at her." The friendliness began to bleed away, something colder seeping through. "Look at what you thought you could have."
Liefand's terrified eyes met Briar's. She couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but watch as Malus's expression shifted from pleasant to something terrible.
"She belongs to me," Malus said, and now there was anger beneath the calm, building like a storm. "Every inch of her. Every sound she makes. Every drop of blood in her veins. Mine."
His grip tightened on Liefand's throat. The lord's struggles grew weaker.
"And you thought you could touch her? You thought I would share?"
"Forgive me," Liefand gasped. "Please, Your Majesty, I beg—"
"Watch," Malus commanded Briar, his voice sharp. "Watch what happens to those who touch what's mine."
She couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to. Malus released Liefand's throat, and for one brief moment hope flickered across the lord's face.
Then Malus placed his palm over Liefand's eyes.
The screaming started immediately. Liefand's hands flew to his face, clawing at Malus's wrist, but Malus held firm. Briar could smell it—decay, rot, the sickly-sweet stench of something dying. She could see the skin around Malus's fingers turning gray, darkening, withering.
"This is what happens," Malus announced to the silent hall, his voice rising over Liefand's shrieks. "To anyone who thinks they can take from me. To anyone who believes my generosity is weakness."
He released Liefand, and the lord crumpled to the dais floor, hands pressed to his face, sounds coming from his throat that didn't sound like language anymore. Dark fluid seeped between his fingers—not blood, something thicker, fouler.
"Let this serve as a reminder." Malus's voice had gone cold, hard, furious. "She is mine. If any of you so much as look at her too long, you will envy Lord Liefand. Because I was merciful tonight. I left him his tongue so he can tell others what happens when you covet what belongs to the Autumn King."
The hall was deathly silent except for Liefand's broken sobbing.
Malus settled back in his throne, his hand returning to Briar's thigh, his touch gentle once more. "Now," he said pleasantly, as if nothing had happened, "where were we?"
Briar couldn't stop shaking. On the floor beside the dais, Liefand continued to weep, his ruined eyes hidden behind trembling hands. Guards eventually dragged him away, leaving only a smear of dark fluid on the stones.
The court resumed eating. Conversation picked up again, forcibly cheerful, studiously avoiding any mention of what had just occurred.
And Briar understood, with horrible clarity, exactly what would happen to Síocháin if Malus ever discovered her betrayal. What would happen to anyone who tried to help her. What would happen to Eliam if she failed.
The vial pressed against her hip, a tiny weight that suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
She had to succeed. There was no other option.
Chapter eighteen
The days blurred together.
