The tape measure felt like a garrote around his throat.
Three days had passed since Asher was brought to the Artois estate. Three days of suffocating luxury, constant surveillance, and the cloying, inescapable scent of blooming roses.
Currently, he was standing on a velvet pedestal in the center of the Duchy’s grand fitting room. Three master tailors buzzed around him, their hands moving with frantic precision as they draped him in exquisite, heavy silks and fine wool.
"A bit tighter around the waist, Monsieur," a soft, melodic voice commanded.
Asher’s gray eyes flicked to the tall, gold-rimmed mirror in front of him. In the reflection, Elara was lounging on a chaise, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. She was dressed in a pristine white gown, her silver hair falling in perfect, soft waves. To the tailors, she looked like an angelic child taking a kind interest in her new companion.
But Asher could see the dark, predatory gleam in her violet eyes. She wasn’t watching the tailors. She was watching him, her gaze scraping over every inch of his body like a branding iron.
"Of course, My Lady," the head tailor bowed profusely, quickly adjusting the pins in Asher’s dark waistcoat.
"And the cravat," Elara continued, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink that made the servants flinch. "It must be deep sapphire blue. Exactly the shade of the Artois crest. No, actually… bring it here. I will tie it myself."
The tailors, eager to please the frighteningly precise young heiress, immediately stepped back, presenting a silver tray that held a gleaming silk cravat.
Elara stood up. The room went perfectly still as she approached the pedestal.
She stepped up onto the velvet platform, bringing her face uncomfortably close to his. Because they were both ten years old, they were almost exactly the same height. Her large violet eyes locked onto his, unblinking and deep.
"Lift your chin," she murmured.
Asher obeyed. His expression remained carefully blank, an impenetrable mask of docility. He was determined to play his part perfectly. No defiance. No fear. Just the hollow obedience of a commoner grateful for charity.
Elara’s small, lace-gloved hands looped the cool silk around his neck. She moved agonizingly slowly. Her knuckles deliberately brushed against the sensitive skin of his throat, resting just over his pulse point. It felt less like she was dressing him and more like she was fitting him for a collar.
"Your heart is beating so fast, Asher," she whispered, her breath ghosting across his collarbone. The servants were too far away to hear. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I am merely overwhelmed by Your Ladyship's generosity," Asher replied smoothly, his voice devoid of the tremor that shook his core.
Elara’s hands stalled.
She looked up, her violet eyes narrowing dangerously as she searched his face. She was looking for the anger, the disgust, the raw, bleeding trauma she so deeply relished. Finding only a placid, obedient mask, a flicker of cold irritation crossed her beautiful features.
"You are hiding again," she whispered, her nails digging slightly into the silk at his throat, pulling the cravat just a fraction too tight. "Don't do that. I hate it when you lie to me."
"I exist only to serve as your proxy, My Lady. I have nothing to hide."
For a long, terrifying second, Elara stared at him. The ambient mana in the room grew heavy, the air thinning as her monstrous magic reacted to her foul mood. The tailors near the walls began to nervously rub their chests, unaware of why it was suddenly so hard to breathe.
Then, the irritation vanished. Elara let out a soft, dark hum of amusement.
She finished the knot, patting his chest with feigned affection.
"You always were a quick learner," she said, stepping down from the pedestal and admiring her work.
The deep blue cravat starkly contrasted with Asher's pale skin and raven-black hair. He looked polished, refined, and completely owned. He looked exactly like a masterpiece she had personally painted.
"Let him keep this on," Elara ordered the tailors, her eyes never leaving Asher’s reflection in the mirror. "My father wishes to see him in the study. It is time we made things official."
As the tailors bowed and scurried away to fetch the remaining garments, Elara held out her small hand to him. Her smile was radiantly, terrifyingly perfect.
"Come, my love," she whispered. "Let us go sign your life away."
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