But that voice grows fainter as her scent fills the small room. Honey and determination, with new undertones of contentment that make my hands itch to touch her skin.
She falls asleep clutching a half-eaten apple, dark lashes fanned against cheeks that finally show some color. I watch the steady rise and fall of her breathing until the candle burns low, then conjure a thick woolen cloak from shadow. The fabric whispers as I lay it over her sleeping form, replacing the inadequate blanket with something that will actually keep her warm.
My fingers brush her forehead as I adjust the cloak's hood, and her skin feels like heated silk beneath my touch. She sighs in her sleep, unconsciously leaning into the contact.
I should leave. Return to the infernal courts and review pending contracts like a proper demon.
Instead, I settle into the room's single chair and watch her sleep.
15
ILYRA
The invitations arrive in a leather satchel carried by one of Bram's guards. Thick parchment sealed with dark purple wax, embossed with the Hethryn house sigil. Forty-three of them, stacked like death sentences on the kitchen table.
I stand in the doorway and watch Vaelra's fingers trace the embossing with something close to reverence.
"Look at the quality." She holds one up to catch the light. "He's sparing no expense."
My stomach turns. Each invitation represents another witness to my forced captivity, another person who'll remember the day I became property.
"These go out tomorrow." Vaelra sorts them into piles—local settlement leaders, distant trade contacts, minor dark elf houses. "The ceremony is set for less than two weeks hence. That gives us barely enough time to?—"
"No."
The word drops into the room.
Vaelra's head snaps up. "What did you say?"
"I said no." My hands clench at my sides. "I won't marry him."
"You don't have a choice." She stands, smoothing her skirts with practiced precision. "Word has already spread through four territories. The announcements went out days ago. Do you understand what refusal means now? Public disgrace. For this entire household. We'd lose everything."
Days ago. She sent announcements before even showing me the invitations. Before giving me any chance to?—
The realization is gut-wrenching. This was deliberate. Calculated. She's been maneuvering me into a corner where escape becomes impossible.
"You planned this." My voice comes out flat. Dead. "You wanted me trapped."
"I want us to survive." But her eyes won't quite meet mine. "Your father left us nothing. No trade agreements, no protection, no?—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't you dare use him as an excuse."
Something cold and serpentine coils in my gut. The way Vaelra looks away. How quickly she moved on after his death. The convenient timing of his illness.
Did she...?
I can't finish the thought. Not out loud. Not without proof. But the suspicion roots deep, sending tendrils of doubt through every memory of the past months.
"The invitations go out tomorrow," Vaelra repeats, voice hardening. "You will attend the final dress fitting on Sixthday. And you will smile."
Mariselle drifts in from the sitting room, examining her nails with affected boredom. "At least you'll eat well for a few months. Before he gets bored and trades you to someone with fewer standards."
The casual cruelty breaks something in my chest.
"Tell me, Mari." I turn to face her fully. "When you look in the mirror, do you see what you've become? Or do you just practice that sneer until it feels natural?"
Her mouth falls open. Actual shock flashes across her face—she's not used to me fighting back.