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I stand by that observation as firmly as I stand by my own will to live.

Dare sighs and reaches out for the stalk loose between my fingers.

I hand it over, watching the harsh lines of his face soften, like the mood that’s clouded him all phase starts to evaporate before me.

“Bedding,” he decides after a long pause.

My mouth puckers.

I don’t believe that’s all he wants with Bee, that when he’s done tormenting her, he simply aims to have her in his sheets.

But it’s Ridge who asks, “Is that all? So much trouble for mere bedding?”

Dare brings the stalk to his lips. “What more is there?”

I’m unconvinced.

I watch as he inhales long and smooth.

Vapours snakes around his nostrils, cloud his face—but they don’t hide the frown of doubt that creases his brow, nor do they shield the slight flutter of his lashes from my sight.

Dare is also unconvinced.

I suppose he’s uncertain of his own motives, the balance of anger and desire, and which result he’s really chasing.

I leave him to his confusion, and hope Bee makes it out of Dare’s volatile ways alive. I’m short on friends and I have grown a bit fond of her.

I pinch the ember of the stalk, then stow it away in my boot for later.

Dare keeps to the roof as I walk with Ridge down to the lobby.

He and Eamon have a date.

And of course, I cannot go.

Daxeel’s command keeps me confined to Hemlock, and Eamon is headed to the tavern again, another inspection that inches him closer to leaving me behind once my time here is done.

“Eamon says it was your idea,” Ridge says as I stomp down the steps beside him; he descends the stairs with a much more grace. “The bar,” he adds at my bemused look.

“It wasn’t.” The smile playing on my lips is small. “It was my idea to name it after myself,” I add with a sheepish grin, “but not the bar itself. That’s all him.”

Still, I smile something proud and follow him down to the lobby where Eamon waits. And though my instincts push me to join them, the commands of slavery keep my boots planted on the floor, and I can’t leave, not without Daxeel’s permission.

So at the doorway, I just wave them off.

In the front garden of the neighbouring home, Kalice tends to a thorny bush of the dark berry. She only nods her head in greeting, three faerie hounds prowling around her legs in a circle of protection.

Then the door closes on its own accord and isolates me. Just as Daxeel has probably commanded it to.

Before I can start for the stairs, the rapid thumps of boots hit the basement steps. I falter, eyes squinting through the late dimness of the foyer lights and watch for whoever comes up the stairs from the kitchens.

The yellow hair is first. Braided long and thick, like a rope that unravels down a spine. Cat eyes gleam through the duskiness.

Rune rounds on me in the lobby, the hue of his eyes fading into something buttery. No threats to be found in his amused smirk.

His hand rests, relaxed, on the banister and he aims that small smile at me. “I received a letter.”

That’s all he says.