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“No dancing?” he asks, and still, the mockery is wiped from his tone. “No training, no reading? You will stand as furniture in this home, and merely love him?”

I frown at him.

Dare doesn’t look at me. His focus is still fixed on Tris.

She’s moved for the hearth and now bends over to tend to the pots on the flames.

Dare makes no effort to hide how blatantly he considers her generous backside, made bigger by the tulle underlayers of her skirt.

But his words clang my bones.

The way he said it,merelylove him…

Dare is trying to help me, in his warped and wicked way.

It’s not enough.

That’swhat he’s telling me.

It’s not enough to simply love Daxeel.

No dancing, no training, no reading?

Be myself. Live as I normally would, as though I am free, not like an enslaved evate who begs her male to love her. Treat Daxeel as I would under normal circumstances. Dance, read, tend to animals, find my friends and laugh, liveoutsideof Daxeel.

Gripping the copper mug, I push out from my chair. The legs of it scrape over the stone.

Dare doesn’t look away from Tris’s curves.

“If I was better, I might thank you,” I say with a sniff. “But I am not, so I won’t.”

My words swerve his gilded stare to me.

One heartbeat, two, then he smiles small. “Thank me for what?”

In answer, I just arch a brow, then turn my back on him. Before I walk through the archway, I spare a glance over my shoulder at him.

His thumb has returned to his palm. Absentmindedly, he runs his touch over the sketched sun. His thoughts seem to have drifted away from him again, back to thoughts that turn his mouth down with a frown.

He watches the window again.

He forgets Tris.

And I leave.

By the time I finish exploring the first few levels of Hemlock House and read the colours of the doors, as though it’ll help me learn their meaning, the Warmth is mostly gone.

I find my way back to the main floor, where double doors open to a sprawling dining hall. The ceiling is glittered with chandeliers and gold trims.

Breakfast has been and gone.

I made sure to hide myself in the washroom’s claw-footed tub for most of it, then spent some time wandering the aisles of the library I discovered. Mostly, I just studied the titles of the tomes on the shelves.

Now, as I wander through the open doors to the dining hall, Eamon is the only one still at the table. In front of him, his plate lies clear, except for the streaks of green relish and some breadcrumbs.

He waited for me.

Eamon looks up before my bare foot can even touch the polished, blackwood floor of the room. He watches me approach.