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They slammed the door and returned in seconds with a neatly folded swath of sparkling blue fabric.
As the elven prince took it, he commanded,
“Give her what she asks for or you will live no longer behind these doors.”
The threat shook their tiny spines, and as the door shut, Casamir gave me the dress.
“Change.”
I took it and stared.
“Will you stand and watch?”
“Why do you ask such questions when I have watched you bathe and dress before?”
“These are the actions of a lover, which you are not.”
“I could be your lover,” he said.
The comment was delivered so softly, it stunned me into silence. For a moment, I could only stare, and when I recovered, I cleared my throat and attempted a sharp reply.
“I would have to like you.”
“Who says there must be like? There is passion and pleasure in hate.”
I was not sure why it mattered to me, but somehow, I did not wish to give him the satisfaction of watching me. Perhaps I wanted it to feel like a punishment…like rejection. I turned from him and shed the robe, then stepped into the dress. As I slipped the sleeves on my shoulders, Casamir’s hands were on the laces, pulling and tightening. I shivered as his fingers brushed against me.
The ease and intimacy of his actions burned my skin, and yet I did not dissuade him. I told myself it was because lacing my dress would be too difficult on my own and not because I had desired his touch from the moment he walked into the room.
“Do you help all your guests dress?” I asked, and while I managed to keep my voice light, I was surprised by how much jealousy wished to seep through.
“You are not a guest,” he said.
I pondered asking him what he considered me—a prisoner, a curse, a thorn in his side—but kept quiet, and once he was finished tying the laces, I turned to face him. He offered his hand, and when I did not take it, his features grew hard.
“You have delayed my evening long enough,” he said.
“What power you have given me,” I said, amused.
He bared his teeth. “I am voracious,” he said. “I shall feast tonight. Whether on food or on you, the choice is yours.”
“I will hardly quell your appetite.”
“Oh, sweet thing, I think you will.”
The way he spoke was not lost on me, as if he and I were an inexorable truth.
I took his hand and let him lead me from my room, and as we passed into the hall that led to the portico, I could not help staying close to him to keep distance between me and the wall of thorned vines.
He glanced at me. “Afraid of my flowers?”
“Mistrusting,” I corrected. “As with all things fae.”
“But you are fae.”
The urge to tell him to stop saying that clawed up my throat, but I did not speak, fearing if I did, he would torture me with those words.
We were quiet for only a beat, and then he spoke. “You spent time in my garden.”
