Page 40 of Dark Elf Makes Five

When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, and her hair spreads across the pillows like dark silk.

"You are mine now, Kessara." My voice carries absolute certainty. "All of you. Your siblings, your loyalty, your stubborn pride—everything belongs to me."

Her eyes search my face, looking for something I'm not sure she'll find.

"And what about me?" she asks quietly. "What do I get?"

I brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, my touch gentler than my words.

"My heart. But that was yours the moment you glared up at me that night in the garden."

21

KESSARA

"No, Bran. The letter 'g' has a tail that drops below the line." I guide his hand with mine, watching him form the letters with painstaking care across the parchment. "Like this."

His tongue pokes out between his lips in concentration, the way it used to when he was small and trying to stack rocks without them toppling. The familiar gesture tugs at something deep in my chest—a reminder that despite everything we've endured, he's still just thirteen.

"Is this better?" He holds up the parchment, green eyes seeking approval.

The letters march across the page in uneven rows, some tilting left while others lean right, but each one shows improvement from yesterday's attempt. Pride swells in my throat.

"Much better. You're getting the hang of it."

At the other end of the library table, Master Ramin's dry voice pierces through the morning quiet like parchment rustling. "Miss Lysa, if you spent as much time focusing on your sums as you do watching the birds outside, you might actually solve this problem."

Lysa's curls bounce as she turns back to her slate with an exaggerated sigh. "But Kessa, did you see that blue jay? It's been building a nest in the oak tree all morning."

"Eyes on your numbers," I say gently, though I can't help smiling at her enthusiasm.

Tobin's pencil scratches furiously across his slate, his freckled nose scrunched in determination. "I'm already finished with mine! Look!" He waves the slate triumphantly, nearly knocking over the inkwell.

"Careful." I steady the glass bottle before it can spill across the expensive books lining the shelves. "Let Master Ramin check your work first."

The elderly tutor adjusts his spectacles and examines Tobin's arithmetic with the same intensity he might use to decipher ancient texts. "Adequate. Though your handwriting could use refinement."

Tobin beams as if he's just been crowned king.

This morning feels surreal. Yesterday we were sleeping in the servants' quarters, and now each of them has a room larger than our entire cabin back home. Lysa spent an hour just opening and closing the wardrobe in her chamber, marveling at the smooth hinges. Tobin discovered his room has a window seat overlooking the gardens and declared it the perfect spot for reading adventures.

And Bran... Bran keeps glancing at me with those thoughtful green eyes, as if he's trying to solve a puzzle he can't quite piece together.

"Kessa?" His voice drops low, meant only for my ears. "Are you all right?"

I force brightness into my smile. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

His gaze flickers to the faint marks on my neck that my hastily braided hair doesn't quite conceal. Heat creeps up my throat, and I adjust my collar, suddenly grateful that Master Ramin remains absorbed in correcting Lysa's sums.

"You seem... different this morning."

Different. That's one way to put it.

I woke up in silk sheets worth more than our parents could earn in their lifetime, in a bed that could fit our entire family. The memory of Zerion's hands on my skin, his mouth claiming mine with desperate hunger, sends warmth spiraling through my belly even now.

But beneath the heat lies something colder. Something that whispers questions I do not want to answer.

Is this what I've become? A woman who trades her body for her family's security? The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. I wanted something real with him—something that grew from choice rather than desperation. But how can I tell the difference when survival has tangled itself so thoroughly around desire?