"You don't like it?" She made herself step closer, fighting the urge to run.
"My brother's color." His jaw tightened. "You come to my table dressed in forest green."
"Exactly." She touched the bodice, her fingers brushing over the lace just above where the vial lay hidden. She tried not to linger too long, but even now she couldn’t help but worry that she might fail again, that she might have to repeat this charade over and over. The very thought made her sick. She dropped her hand back to her side, afraid he might see the way it trembled.
She couldn’t risk that kind of mistake.
"I thought it was appropriate. A reminder of what he lost. What you took from him." She met his eyes, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Let him rot in his cell knowing even his colors warm your bed now."
The anger blooming in his expression shifted to something else. Interest, perhaps, and pleasure. He crossed to her, his fingers tracing the edge of the high collar where lace met her skin.
"Clever," he murmured. "Vicious, even. I'm impressed."
"I told you. I'm tired of fighting."
His hand moved to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse. "Your heart is racing."
"I… it’s anticipation," she lied.
"Is it?" He leaned closer, inhaling against her hair. "You smell of fear."
She felt her pulse jump, panic creeping in. He knew she was lying. He was just waiting for a chance to expose her. She lowered her eyes, a gesture she hoped would be seen as show of submission, then let some of the truth slip through. "I wasn't certain this would be... private. After the feast, I thought perhaps—"
"You thought I might parade you before the court again?" His smile sharpened. "Did that embarrass you? Being spread open on my throne while my subjects watched you come apart?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. She couldn't meet his eyes. "It was... unexpected."
"Get used to it." His fingers tightened on her throat, just enough to feel the pressure. "You belong to me now, Briar. I will take you wherever I please, whenever I please. In my chambers. In the throne room. In the middle of the great hall while my court dines around us." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Your comfort is not my concern."
She swallowed against his grip. "I understand."
"Do you?" He studied her face for a long moment, then released her throat and stepped back. "We'll see."
He led her to the table, pulling out her chair. The gesture would have been gallant if not for the way his fingers lingered on her shoulders, cold and possessive.
The food was beautiful and excessive—glazed fowl, roasted vegetables that glistened with butter, bread that steamed when broken. Her stomach was too knotted to eat, but she forced herself to take small bites. Each one threatened to come back up.
"Wine?" He gestured to bottles set in a neat row on the sideboard.
"Please." She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Let me."
She went to the bottles, her back to him. There—the tiny nick on one label, barely visible. She poured from the marked bottle into her own glass, the regular into his. The wine was dark, almost purple, and smelled of blackberries and something earthier.
She brought both glasses to the table, setting his down carefully.
"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.
She touched hers to his, the crystal singing. The wine was perfect, not too sweet, not too dry. She took a small sip, then another. Already she could feel it working, warmth spreading through her chest, down her arms. Her skin began to feel sensitive, aware of every brush of fabric.
"You're not eating much," he observed.
"Nervous stomach." The truth, for once.
"You have no reason to be nervous." He reached across the table, fingers encircling her wrist. "Unless you're planning something."
Her pulse jumped under his touch. The wine was making his skin feel too warm against hers, making her aware of every point of contact. "What would I plan?"
"I wonder." His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. "You were so resistant before. Now suddenly compliant. Wearing his colors. Sharing wine with me."
