Page 52 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"I enjoy being in the kitchen," I insist, still fighting back residual laughter as I gesture toward the bubbling sauce. "I can't simply twiddle my thumbs all day like some pampered lady of leisure."

"It's raining!" Tobin suddenly shouts, his attention already shifted to the next source of excitement. All three children rush toward the kitchen window that overlooks the garden, pressing their faces against the cool glass.

"Look how hard it's coming down!" Lysa exclaims, her breath fogging the window as fat raindrops begin pelting the carefully tended herbs below.

The moment my siblings press their faces against the rain-streaked glass, Zerion moves. His hand cups my jaw with that familiar possessive gentleness, tilting my face toward his as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that tastes of cedar and something darker, more dangerous. My protests dissolve on my tongue as his lips move against mine with confidence.

The wooden spoon clatters to the floor, forgotten.

"I dare you both to run to the fountain and back!" Bran's voice breaks through the spell, his words ringing with a challenge that always gets my siblings into trouble.

Tobin's eyes light up like stars. "In this downpour? Are you mad?"

"Scared?" Lysa taunts, bouncing on her toes as she stares at the sheets of rain battering the garden paths.

"Never!" Tobin declares, puffing out his narrow chest.

All three of them bolt toward the kitchen door leading to the garden, their laughter echoing off the stone walls as they race each other into the storm. The heavy oak door slams behind them with a bang that reverberates through the kitchen.

I turn toward the window, watching through the rain-blurred glass as three small figures disappear down the garden path at breakneck speed. Their shrieks of delighted terror carry even through the thick walls as the downpour soaks them within seconds.

Zerion's arms slide around my waist from behind, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his chest. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, pressing a kiss there that sends heat racing through my veins despite the chill from the storm outside.

"Zerion," I scold gently, though my voice lacks any real conviction as I lean into his touch. "Here?"

The kitchen staff continues their work around us, kneading bread and chopping vegetables with the demeanor of people who have learned to ignore their lord's indiscretions. Still, heat blooms in my cheeks at the thought of being so openly affectionate in front of them.

His chuckle rumbles against my back, vibrating through his chest and into my bones. "The whole estate knows that you have captured my affections, sweet. And they adore you anyway."

I turn in his arms, studying those ghostly eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I've ever constructed. The truth in his words settles something restless in my chest—these people have watched me scrub floors and tend children, have seen me argue with their lord and challenge his authority at every turn. Yet they still smile when I enter a room, still include me in their conversations as if I belong here.

I press a kiss to his lips, brief but genuine. "Go back to your work, and let me prepare dinner."

His answering chuckle holds a note of reluctant acceptance, but his hand drops to deliver a gentle swat to my rear that makes me jump and glare at him with mock indignation. The kitchen staff pretends not to notice, though I catch more than one poorly hidden smile.

Zerion nods to the staff with that aristocratic grace that never quite leaves him, even in moments of playfulness, before striding from the kitchen with the fluid elegance that marks him as something far more dangerous than a simple landowner.

28

ZERION

The leather armchair welcomes me back into its familiar embrace as I settle behind the mahogany desk that has witnessed countless estate decisions over the years. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the study walls lined with leather-bound volumes and maps of my holdings.

I reach for the stack of reports that arrived this morning, their wax seals already broken and contents digested once. Now I need to examine them with fresh eyes, searching for patterns that might reveal Selmyra's true intentions.

The first report details the mercenaries she hired—men whose names appear in wanted notices across three provinces. Gareth the Blade, known for his work with a particularly cruel smuggling operation that left entire merchant families dead in roadside ditches. Paqui Blackwater, whose specialty involves making people disappear without leaving traces for authorities to follow. Habron Stone, a brute who earned his reputation breaking bones for loan sharks before graduating to more profitable violence.

These are not the sort of men a noblewoman employs for legitimate purposes.

I set the first report aside and lift the second, which chronicles their movements over the past week. Two meetings with Selmyra in the back room of a tavern known for harboring criminals. Cash exchanged. Maps spread across tables while they spoke in hushed tones.

The third report makes my blood run cold.

They've been asking questions about Kessara. Her routines. When she visits town. Which paths she takes through the estate grounds.

My fingers tighten around the parchment until it crinkles. Selmyra wants my hand in marriage—that much has been obvious since her husband's funeral three years ago. She needs a powerful alliance to maintain her social standing, and I represent the perfect solution. Wealthy, established, with enough influence to restore her position without forcing her to grovel before some ancient patriarch who would treat her like an ornament.

But Kessara's presence in my household has shattered those carefully laid plans.