Page 2 of Dark Elf Makes Five

He doesn't even flinch. His grip tightens until my bones grind together.

"Stop squirming, human."

I drive my elbow back toward his stomach. He catches my arm before it connects, spinning me around to face the manor. My boots skid against the garden path as he forces me down onto my knees, hands clamping on my shoulders like manacles.

"Please—" The word tears from my throat before I can stop it.

Footsteps approach, measured and deliberate. A figure emerges from the shadows between the fruit trees—tall, imposing, moving with the fluid grace that marks his kind. Even in the darkness, I catch the sharp angles of his face, the way moonlight catches silver-white hair pulled back from aristocratic features.

"Why are you stealing from my garden?" His voice holds the weight of authority, deep and smooth as aged wine.

My heart drums against my ribs so hard I'm certain he can hear it. The guard's fingers dig deeper into my shoulders, holding me in place like a pinned butterfly.

"My siblings—" The words spill out in a rush. "They're starving. We haven't had a proper meal in weeks and the money's gone and our parents died in the mines two years ago from the lung rot and no one in town will hire me because they think I'm trouble and Bran's so thin I can count his ribs and Lysa cries herself to sleep from hunger and little Tobin doesn't even remember what it feels like to have a full belly⁠—"

"Regardless." He cuts through my rambling with surgical precision. "Stealing is wrong."

Something hot and vicious unfurls in my chest. The guard's grip keeps me trapped, but my tongue runs free.

"Wrong?" I laugh, sharp and bitter. "You weren't even using it! Half this fruit will rot before you notice it's gone."

One silver eyebrow arches with infuriating arrogance. "I like to look out at my garden. Whether or not I plan to eat the fruit is irrelevant—it's mine."

The words land like a slap. I gather what moisture I can in my dry mouth and spit at his polished boots.

"That's because you have the luxury of seeing food as decoration." My voice shakes with fury. "You can stay behind your pretty walls and ignore the ugly reality that keeps you fat and comfortable. The reality that lives just outside your gate—the one that pays for all this with their empty stomachs and broken backs."

He stares at me for a moment, those pale eyes unreadable in the moonlight. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away even as the guard's fingers press bruises into my shoulders.

"Take her inside."

2

ZERION

The great hall swallows the sound of our footsteps as my guards escort the thief inside. Tapestries depicting ancient elven victories line the stone walls, their rich colours muted in the flickering candlelight. I settle into my high-backed chair behind the massive oak table that dominates the room's centre, while one of my men drags a simple wooden chair across the flagstones for her.

She perches on its edge like a sparrow ready to take flight, shoulders hunched against the chill that seeps through these old walls. Her dark hair has escaped whatever knot she'd twisted it into, falling in tangled waves around a face that catches my attention despite myself.

The bone structure underneath speaks of better breeding than her circumstances suggest—high cheekbones that mirror my own kind's aristocratic lines, a stubborn chin that tilts upward even now. Her eyes flash defiance, dark as winter storms. Under different circumstances, with proper nutrition and clothing, she might be considered striking by human standards.

But the hollows beneath those cheekbones tell a different story. Her collarbone juts sharp against the threadbare fabric of her dress, and the way she unconsciously presses a hand to her ribs speaks of intimate familiarity with hunger. The sight draws my mouth into a disgusted line.

"Your name."

"Kessara." She wraps her arms around herself, though whether from cold or nerves, I cannot tell.

"And these siblings you mentioned—how many?"

"Three." Her chin lifts higher.

I lean against my chair, studying the way her fingers worry at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Your parents are dead?"

"Yes."

"And you have no other relatives?"

A bitter laugh escapes her throat. "Of course I do. But they're like you."