She left as quietly as she'd come, and Briar was alone again.
But the conversation had kindled something in her chest, a small flame of determination that had been guttering since the feast. She could do this. She would do this. For Eliam. For herself. For everyone Malus would hurt if he remained in power.
She forced herself to eat the bread and cheese that had been left on a tray. It still tasted like nothing, but she chewed and swallowed anyway. Then she bathed, scrubbing her skin until it was pink and raw, trying to wash away the memory of hands that weren't there anymore.
She was sitting by the window, hair still damp, when the door opened.
Not Síocháin slipping in quietly. This was someone who didn't need to knock, who walked in like he owned the space—because he did.
Her blood went cold.
The door swung open, and Malus filled the frame.
He looked immaculate, as always. Dark burgundy jacket over a cream shirt, his copper hair gleaming in the corridor light. His smile was warm, almost tender, and that was somehow worse than if he'd been openly cruel.
"There you are," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I was beginning to worry."
Briar rose from her chair, acutely aware of how thin her dressing gown was, how vulnerable she felt. "Your Majesty."
"Malus," he corrected, moving closer. "I think we're past formalities, don't you?"
She made herself smile. It felt like cracking glass. "Malus."
"Better." He stopped in front of her, his eyes dropping to the bite wound on her neck, and something flickered across his expression. "How are you healing?"
"Slowly," she admitted, because lying about something he could clearly see seemed pointless.
"I may have taken too much." He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the wound. She held herself perfectly still, fighting the urge to flinch. "I got... carried away. You bring that out in me."
He said it as if it were a compliment and draining her nearly to the point of death was something she should be flattered by.
"I haven't seen you these past few days," he continued, his hand moving from her neck to cup her jaw. "I've missed you."
"I haven't been feeling well," she said. "The feeding took a lot out of me."
"Of course it did. You're so delicate." His thumb stroked along her cheekbone. "I've been giving you time to recover. But I confess, my patience has reached its limit."
Her heart began to pound.
"I'd like you to join me for dinner tonight." He continued, his eyes held hers, and beneath the pleasant tone was steel. "Just the two of us."
Private. The word sent a complicated rush through her—relief that it wouldn't be another public spectacle, dread at what private with Malus would actually mean.
"I would like that," she made herself say. The words wanted to stick in her throat, but she pushed them out, softened her expression into something approaching eagerness. "I've been hoping... that is, after the feast, I thought perhaps you were displeased with me."
"Displeased?" He laughed softly. "Dear one, you exceeded every expectation. The way you begged me to touch you..." His eyes darkened with remembered pleasure. "I've thought of little else."
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.
"Then I'll be there," she said. "Tonight."
"Good." He leaned in and captured her mouth with his. She made herself respond even as her stomach turned. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright with anticipation. "I'll send someone to escort you at sunset."
He released her and moved toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Briar? Don't keep me waiting. I'm not nearly as patient as my brother was."
The door closed behind him, and Briar let out a shaky breath.
