“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” He held her gaze, letting her see the truth of it. “I’ve carried you through snowstorms and bathed you when you couldn’t stand and held you through the night when neural damage could have stopped your heart. You think I’d hesitate to ensure you’re nourished?”
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise. Maybe something warmer.
She opened her mouth.
The meat disappeared between her lips, and Sylas watched her chew with an attention he usually reserved for battle tactics and political maneuvering. Her jaw worked. Her throat moved. The bite went down.
The beast purred.
“Again.” He selected another piece, this one smaller. Easier. “You’ll eat until I’m satisfied you’ve had enough.”
“And when will that be?”
“When you stop looking like a strong wind could snap you in half.”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh, muffled by the next bite he pressed to her lips. But she ate. Piece by piece, bite by bite, she ate what he offered with decreasing resistance and increasing acceptance.
This was what she needed. Care. Attention. Someone who noticed when she forgot herself in favor of survival mode, whoforced sustenance past her defenses when her own instincts failed her.
Someone whosawher.
The intimacy of it settled something feral in his chest—something that had been prowling since he’d first caught her scent in his throne room and recognized it for what it was. Frosted Tears. The rarest fragrance on his world. The scent that meant mate to any Yzefrxyl male with functioning instincts.
He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to categorize her as an asset, a political tool, a bed-warmer to satisfy the court’s expectations. But the beast had known from the start what she was, and the beast was done pretending.
Mine. Fed. Safe.
The words resonated through him like a prayer.
She ate the bread he tore into pieces for her. Drank the broth he held to her lips, tilting the vessel with careful precision so she could swallow without choking. Accepted the dried fruit he pressed between her teeth one piece at a time, her eyes never leaving his face as she consumed what he provided.
By the time she turned her head away—”Enough, I can’t”—her cheeks had color in them again. The gray pallor that had alarmed him earlier had faded, replaced by something healthier. Warmer.
“You’ll eat more later.”
“I know.” The words came out resigned. “You’ll make sure of it.”
“Yes.” He set aside the tray, satisfied for now. “I will.”
She leaned back against the cushions, her body language loose in a way it hadn’t been since he’d carried her into this chamber the night before. Full belly, warm fire, safety she couldn’t quite admit she felt. The combination was working on her like sedative, softening the sharp edges of her vigilance.
But they weren’t done yet.
Sylas rose, moving toward the communication panel. A few quick commands summoned what he needed—not from the kitchens this time, but from the seamstresses who maintained the royal wardrobes.
“What are you doing?”
“You need proper clothing.” He turned back to study her, cataloguing the thin sleeping shift that had been acceptable for rest but was entirely inadequate for anything else. “Those rags you’ve been wearing won’t do.”
“They’re not rags. They’re practical.”
“They’re beneath you.” The words came out sharper than intended. “You’re the Alpha King’s—” He stopped. Considered. Chose carefully. “You’re mine. My pet. You’ll dress accordingly.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue. Progress.
The clothing arrived quickly—the staff had learned that delays where his pet was concerned resulted in consequences no one wanted to face. Sylas dismissed the servant at the door and carried the garments to where Elsa sat, spreading them across the furs for her inspection.