Page 36 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"Zerion, you must—!" The protest tears from my throat before my brain catches up to my mouth.

"Miss Thornefield." Halvren's voice slices through the air like a blade, sharp with disapproval and rigid propriety. His spine straightens to military attention, every line of his body radiating scandalized authority. "I think it's high time you returned to your staff quarters."

The emphasis on those last words strikes me like a hand to my cheek. Heat inflames my cheeks as the reality of my transgression crashes over me—I called him by his given name. Not Lord Morvath, not My Lord, but Zerion. As if I have any right to such familiarity. I may have felt like nobility this past week, preparing for this ridiculous party, but I am the same as I was before—in servitude to the Lord of this estate.

My lips press together as I prepare to apologize, to grovel appropriately for forgetting my place.

"It's quite alright, Halvren. You're dismissed." Zerion's voice carries quiet authority that brooks no argument. He nods toward the door with the same casual gesture he used to dismiss my breach of protocol. "Kessara and I have things to discuss just yet."

Halvren's mouth opens slightly, then snaps shut with an audible click. His gaze darts between us, clearly torn between his instinct to protect proper decorum and his lifelong habit of obeying his master's commands. After a moment's hesitation, he bows stiffly and retreats from the study, pulling the door closed behind him with more force than strictly necessary.

The silence stretches like a taut wire. My heart pounds against my ribs hard enough that I'm certain he can hear it across the room. The borrowed gown suddenly feels too tight, too revealing, too much like playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"All you've done is make things infinitely worse through violence," I say, my voice barely steady despite the fury building in my chest.

"Allowing that drunk fool to put his hands on you would have signaled weakness to every noble in that room." Zerion's fingers drum against the desktop. "They would have interpreted my inaction as permission to treat you however they pleased."

"I don't need you breaking bones to defend my honor!" The words explode from me, frustration making my voice crack. "I've been taking care of myself just fine without⁠—"

"Have you?" He rises from his chair with predatory grace, moving around the desk toward me. "Because you came into my garden in search of food after months of struggle. Years. You grew thin, weak, while you fed your siblings first, while you put them over your own well being as if withering away would protect them from the fact that you had no other choice. No help."

My breath catches. The distance I've maintained between us shrinks with each step he takes. "That's different. That was⁠—"

"That was someone I cannot tolerate seeing hurt suffering at the hands of a society that I contribute to." His voice droops to something resembling a whisper. "I cannot stand the thought of anyone putting their hands on you."

Heat dots my cheeks, but anger keeps my spine straight. "Stop hiding behind all this control nonsense and just admit what you want from me!" I gesture wildly around the opulent study. "It's not like you needed another person on your staff—you're full up with servants. Why choose me when it means feeding three hungry mouths who don't contribute a damn thing to your precious estate?"

His grey eyes narrow, something dangerous flickering in their depths.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd believe every rumor circulating through this godforsaken region. It's the only explanation that makes sense⁠—!"

Before I can draw another breath, his hands cup my face and his mouth crashes against mine. The rest of my accusation dies against his lips, muffled by the sudden heat of his kiss. My heart slams into my ribs as shock freezes my entire body.

When he pulls back, his eyes burn with an intensity that makes my knees unsteady. "Because you are mine, Kessara."

The possessive declaration sends fire through my veins. I jut my chin out, meeting his stare with defiance I don't entirely feel. "I belong to no one."

This time his kiss punishes, demanding rather than asking. His hands grip my waist, leaving marks and sending shivers across my skin that have nothing to do with the evening chill. "Mine," he growls against my mouth. "You belong to me. I have decided."

I shove against his chest, putting space between us even as my body betrays me by wanting more. "Oh have you? Well, guess what? I'm tired of rich, spoiled bastards like you deciding things for me. I'm done! Finished, understand?"

Zerion simply touches his mouth with one finger, leaning back against his desk with infuriating calm. The candlelight plays across his sharp features, highlighting the satisfaction in his expression. "Then decide. I've made my decision. I want you."

"And if I refuse?" My voice wavers despite my best efforts. "You'll throw us out? Fire me for not spreading my legs when commanded?"

His face hardens, but not with anger—with something that looks almost like hurt. "I am a man of pride and honor, Kessara. You will always have employment here. Your siblings will always have a safe place. That will not change regardless of your choice."

The sincerity in his voice is almost… convincing. For months he's protected Bran, Lysa, and Tobin without asking anything in return. Fed them, housed them, hired tutors, defended them from townspeople's cruelty. And I never had to ask for it. My heart clenches as the weight of his care overwhelms every rational thought.

Before I can second-guess myself, I step forward and kiss him, my fingers gripping his shirt like an anchor. All sense abandons me as his hands roam my body, mapping curves through expensive silk.

"Good choice," he growls, lifting me effortlessly onto the desk. Papers scatter as his fingers find the delicate fastenings of my borrowed gown, tearing the fabric open at the bodice.

His mouth descends on my nipple, teeth scraping sensitive flesh before he sucks deep. Heat spirals through my entire body, pulling a sharp gasp from my throat as I arch off the polished wood of his desk. "Fuck, Zerion⁠—"

Fingers bunch the expensive silk of my skirt, pushing it up my thighs. His other hand slips beneath the fabric, finding the damp heat between my legs. One long finger strokes through folds already slick with need, teasing my entrance without entering.

"They want to speculate about you whoring for me?" His voice rumbles against my breast, hot breath washing across wet skin. His teeth graze the hardened peak again, sending another jolt straight to my core. "I want to feel it. I want to taste what a good slut you are, Kessara."