Vaelra stiffens. "Minor misunderstandings, nothing?—"
"And the marriage discussions began awfully quickly after the funeral." Mr. Doren exchanges glances with his wife. "Almost as if arrangements were already underway."
Color drains from Vaelra's face.
She opens her mouth twice without sound emerging, searching desperately for footing on suddenly unstable ground. The settlers watch her now with polite skepticism instead of warm admiration.
No accusations. Just questions.
Perfect.
"I—we simply wanted security for the family?—"
"Security for which family?" Mrs. Kaelen asks quietly. "Considering the whole wedding seems to solidify the presence of Dark Elves here."
Vaelra stammers something about duty and responsibility before abruptly smoothing her skirts, recovering a fraction of composure. "Forgive me, but we really must finalize arrangements. So much left to coordinate?—"
She turns sharply toward Bram, forcing brightness into her voice. "Lord Hethryn, perhaps we should return home? Several details require immediate attention."
Bram glances between the now-distant settlers and Vaelra's rigid posture, violet eyes narrowing slightly. He nods once.
"Of course."
I lower my gaze demurely, hiding the satisfaction curling through my chest like smoke.
Well done, Azrath.
Warmth pulses through our connection—pleased, possessive, hungry for more.
The house feels suffocating.
Vaelra spreads fabric samples across the table while Mariselle sorts seating charts. Bram sprawls in father's chair—myfather's chair—reviewing trade agreements that double as dowry negotiations.
I sit near the window, hands folded, tuning out discussions of flower arrangements and political alliances.
Until cold fingers close around my forearm.
Bram's grip tightens possessively, drawing attention without pulling. "Ilyra will wear the silver collar during introductions. It complements dark elf customs?—"
I don't flinch.
Don't pull away.
Just turn my head slowly until our eyes meet.
His luminous violet gaze meets mine—and whatever he sees there makes his smile falter.
I hold perfectly still, expression blank except for the promise burning behind my stare.
Touch me again.
Please.
Give me one more reason.
The discussion wraps up with Bram's final pronouncements about acceptable behavior and public appearances. He risesfrom my father's chair, brushing imaginary dust from his tailored leathers.
Vaelra escorts him to the door with excessive courtesy.