Ilyra nods wordlessly and begins collecting the larger pieces, her movements precise despite the tremor in her hands. A thin line of blood appears where one shard bites into her palm, but she doesn't pause or complain.
I watch her gather every fragment with methodical patience, even as Mariselle steps deliberately close to her work area, forcing her to navigate around silk slippers that could easily move aside. When the floor gleams spotless once more, Ilyra rises and retreats to her room without a word.
The door closes with barely a whisper. I follow through shadow and find her curled on her narrow bed, knees drawn to her chest and face turned toward the wall. She doesn't cry—hasn't cried since her father's funeral, I realize. Instead she lies perfectly still, breathing measured and controlled like someone practicing the art of disappearing entirely.
I should leave. The evening's work is complete, my interference executed, her commands fulfilled. Yet I remain in the shadows near her window, studying the rigid set of her shoulders and the careful way she holds herself even in apparent rest.
The bond pulses between us, that thread of desperation still present but threaded now with something else. Something that tastes of honey and steel, sweetness wrapped around an unbreakable core. It draws me closer despite every instinct that demands distance.
This becomes a pattern. Each night I appear without summons, lingering longer than duty requires. I tell myself it's curiosity—this mortal who signed an infernal contract with steady hands and clear eyes, who endures daily humiliation without breaking. But curiosity doesn't explain why I no longer vanish the moment her commands are complete.
13
ILYRA
The seamstress arrives with Vaelra at mid-morning, her arms laden with bolts of fabric that whisper against each other like secrets. She's a thin woman with prematurely gray hair and fingers stained permanently with dye, the kind of tradesperson who makes her living serving those with more coin than she'll ever see.
"Stand here," Vaelra directs, positioning me in the center of the main room where light streams through the single window. "Arms out."
I comply, but when the seamstress approaches with her measuring tape, I shift my weight just as she reaches for my waist. The movement forces her to start again.
"Hold still, dear." Her voice carries the practiced patience of someone accustomed to difficult clients. "This will go much faster if you cooperate."
I nod and remain motionless until she begins measuring my bust line, then I adjust my posture slightly—not enough to be openly defiant, but sufficient to force her to remeasure. Twice.
"Perhaps she could remove her outer dress?" the seamstress suggests to Vaelra, frustration creeping into her tone. "The extra fabric makes accurate measurements challenging."
"Of course." Vaelra's smile sharpens. "Ilyra, help Mistress Cordwin with whatever she requires."
I unlace my worn brown dress with deliberate slowness, each eyelet taking longer than necessary. When the seamstress moves to measure my shoulders, I turn slightly to examine something fascinating on the wall behind her.
"My apologies." I return to position. "I thought I heard something."
Mistress Cordwin's mouth presses into a thin line. She wraps the tape around my waist again, and I inhale deeply just as she's recording the measurement.
"Dark elves prefer compliant brides," she mutters, rewinding her tape with sharp movements. "Obedience is considered the highest virtue in their marriage contracts."
"How fortunate that Ilyra possesses such natural grace," Vaelra replies, though her eyes narrow as I shift again when the seamstress attempts to measure my hip circumference.
The front door opens without ceremony. Bram steps inside as if he owns the threshold, his violet gaze taking in the scene with predatory interest. He wears midnight blue silk today, the fabric so fine it seems impossible.
"Lord Hethryn." Vaelra dips into a curtsy. "We weren't expecting?—"
"I thought to observe the preparations." His attention fixes on me standing in my chemise while the seamstress fumbles with her measuring tape. "Please, continue."
The air in the room grows thick with tension. Mistress Cordwin's hands tremble slightly as she attempts to complete her work under Bram's scrutiny. I remain perfectly still now, no longer needing to feign cooperation. His presence accomplisheswhat my small rebellions could not—it makes everyone uncomfortable.
Bram circles me slowly, his movements fluid as water. Each step deliberate, calculated to remind everyone present exactly who holds power in this room. The seamstress freezes when he passes behind her, tape measure forgotten in her grip.
"Excellent bone structure," he murmurs, as if discussing livestock at market. "Good proportions. Decent features to pass to our children."
He completes his circuit and stops directly in front of me. Without warning, his pale fingers lift my chin, tilting my face toward the light. His touch carries the chill of deep caves, and I catch the scent of expensive oils and something darker beneath—like copper pennies left in rain.
I don't flinch. Don't pull away or lower my eyes in submission. I meet his violet gaze directly, letting him see whatever he wishes to find there. His fingers remain beneath my chin for several heartbeats longer than necessary, testing my composure.
"Remarkable," he says finally, releasing me. "Most humans cannot maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. Survival instinct, I'm told."
"Perhaps I lack proper survival instincts," I reply evenly.