Page 41 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"I'm fine, Bran." I reach over to correct a letter that's wandering off the line. "Just tired."

He doesn't look convinced, but Master Ramin's sharp clap cuts through whatever he might have said.

"Excellent work this morning. You may consider your lessons complete for today." The tutor begins gathering his materials with brisk efficiency. "Tomorrow we shall begin working on proper sentence construction."

Lysa bounces in her chair like a spring released. "We're done? Really?"

"Can we go explore the gardens now?" Tobin's already halfway out of his seat, energy crackling around him like lightning.

"Please?" Lysa clasps her hands together, wide hazel eyes pleading.

"Yes, you can explore the gardens," I say, watching their faces light up like candles. "But stay on the main paths. No wandering into the hedgerows or climbing the fountain."

"We promise!" Lysa bounces on her toes, already gathering her slate and chalk.

"Hold on." I raise a hand before they can bolt for the door. "Books back on the shelves first. Slates cleaned and stacked properly. Master Ramin's materials organized just as we found them."

They scatter like startled rabbits, racing to tidy their workspace. Tobin nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to return his arithmetic book to its proper place on the shelf. Lysa carefully wipes her slate with a damp cloth, tongue poking out in concentration. Bran moves with more measured efficiency, but I see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches his younger siblings practically vibrating with excitement.

"There!" Tobin slams his slate onto the stack with theatrical flourish. "Can we go now?"

"Thank you for your patience with them, Master Ramin." I turn to the elderly tutor, who's already packing his leather satchel with methodical precision. "They're eager students, just... enthusiastic."

"Enthusiasm properly channeled becomes discipline." He adjusts his spectacles, fixing me with a steady gaze. "They show promise, Miss Thornefield. Young minds, when properly guided, can achieve remarkable things."

The formal way he addresses me still catches me off guard. Three months ago, no one called me 'Miss' anything.

"Come on, Kessa!" Lysa tugs at my sleeve. "The blue jay might be gone if we wait much longer!"

I herd them toward the library door, their chatter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The moment we step into the main corridor, they burst forward like water through a broken dam, feet thundering against polished stone as they race toward the front entrance.

"Remember—main paths only!" I call after them, but they're already pushing through the heavy oak doors.

I follow at a more sedate pace, pausing in the doorway to watch them spill into the morning sunlight. Lysa immediately veers toward the rose garden, her dark curls bouncing as she searches for her beloved blue jay. Tobin makes a beeline for the fountain, probably hoping to spot fish in the ornamental pool. Bran trails behind them both, protective instincts already engaged.

Leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that frame the manor's entrance, I let myself smile. They look like children again instead of survivors.

My gaze drifts past them, following the cobblestone path that winds through the estate grounds toward the main gates. That's when I notice the wagons.

Three of them, positioned just outside the property line where the estate road meets the public thoroughfare. The canvas covers are pulled tight, concealing whatever cargo lies beneath. Men move around the vehicles with purpose, but something about their movements feels wrong. Too careful. Too watchful.

I straighten, instincts sharpening.

Near the gatehouse, two of Captain Draven's guards stand with rigid postures, hands resting on sword hilts. Their attention remains fixed on the strangers, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap.

At least I know the guards are here to keep the manor, and my siblings, safe.

22

ZERION

The contract lies abandoned on my desk, ink still wet from my signature, but the words blur together like spilled wine on parchment. I've read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single clause about grain shipments and seasonal quotas.

My mind keeps drifting to silk-warm skin and the way Kessara's breath caught when I traced the curve of her throat. The memory burns through me with startling intensity, making concentration impossible. I've handled estate business for decades with methodical precision, yet this morning my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

I set down the quill and lean back in the leather chair, fingers drumming against the mahogany armrest. This distraction is becoming problematic. I've always prided myself on compartmentalizing desire from duty, yet Kessara has somehow shattered that careful control.

The taste of her lips still lingers on my tongue. The sound she made when I pulled her against me echoes in my ears. Even now, hours later, I can feel the phantom weight of her body beneath mine, the way she responded with such fierce hunger that it nearly undid me completely.