Page 44 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"It's nearly dark," I point out, rising to gather the abandoned plates. "Past time for baths and bed, not garden adventures."

The collective groan that erupts from their throats could wake the dead. Tobin slumps forward dramatically, resting his forehead against the table's edge. Lysa's lower lip juts out in a pout that could melt stone. Bran crosses his arms and fixes me with the sort of wounded expression he usually reserves for truly devastating injustices.

"But Kessa⁠—"

"No arguments." I stack the plates with practiced efficiency, the familiar weight of responsibility settling across my shoulders like a well-worn cloak. "You'll have plenty of time tomorrow to terrorize the poor flowers."

"Five more minutes?" Lysa tries, batting her eyelashes with theatrical innocence.

"Not even one."

Zerion's voice pierces through their mounting rebellion like silk over steel. "Perhaps," he says, setting down his wine glass with deliberate precision, "you might consider the advantages of prompt obedience."

All three children turn toward him with sudden attention, recognizing the tone that usually precedes either punishment or unexpected rewards. In the soft glow of the dining room candles, his pale eyes hold just enough mystery to keep them guessing.

"Each of you now has your own room," he continues, leaning back in his chair with casual authority. "Proper beds, warm blankets, space for your belongings. Should you listen to your sister without complaint, Mrs. Aldren might be persuaded to bring warm milk and elderberry cookies before you sleep."

The transformation is immediate and complete. Lysa bolts upright in her chair, eyes wide as saucers. Tobin's dramatic slump vanishes as he straightens with renewed energy. Even Bran abandons his sullen protest in favor of barely contained excitement.

"Really?" Lysa breathes, as if he's just promised her the crown jewels.

"Mrs. Aldren's elderberry cookies?" Tobin adds, voice climbing toward a squeak.

Before anyone can answer, all three children explode into motion. Chairs scrape against polished wood as they leap up from the table, tumbling over each other in their haste to reach the doorway. Their excited chatter echoes through the corridor as they race toward the bathing rooms, Mrs. Aldren's patient voice drifting after them as she attempts to restore some semblance of order to their enthusiasm.

I shake my head, watching their retreating figures with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "You don't need to spoil them, you know."

Zerion rises from his chair with fluid grace, the candlelight casting sharp angles across his elegant features. "They deserve to be spoiled." His gaze finds mine across the table, steady and unwavering. "So do you."

Heat blooms in my chest at the quiet intensity in his voice. I turn away quickly, focusing on clearing the remaining dishes to hide the flush creeping up my neck. "I should finish cleaning up and then go check on them. Make sure they actually wash behind their ears instead of just splashing water around."

The soft sound of his footsteps approaches from behind, measured and purposeful. Before I can reach for another serving dish, warm hands cover mine, stilling my movements entirely.

"You're done working for tonight," he says, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

"You can't play favorites⁠—"

"I can," he interrupts firmly, his hands tightening slightly over mine. "And I will. You are my favorite, Kessara. In all my years, I've never been drawn to anyone as I am drawn to you."

The confession hits me like cold water, stealing my breath entirely. Years of surviving on scraps and suspicion have taught me to distrust declarations like this, but the quiet certainty in his voice makes something flutter dangerously in my chest.

"Zerion—"

"And I will favor you."

His mouth finds mine before I can finish the protest, the kiss gentle as morning mist but somehow more devastating than any force he could have used. When he pulls back, grey eyes study my face with the same careful attention he gives estate ledgers, as if memorizing every detail.

"I think it's time for you to bathe and dress for bed as well, sweet."

The endearment sends warmth spiraling through me even as my practical mind catalogues all the reasons this is dangerous territory. Following him up the manor's grand staircase feels like crossing some invisible threshold, each step taking me further from the safety of predictable boundaries.

His private chambers sprawl across the entire east wing, furnished with dark wood and rich fabrics that probably cost more than I earned in three years of petty theft. But what stops me short is the massive copper tub positioned near the fireplace, steam rising from water that shimmers with lavender oil and a layer of bubbles that catch the flickering light.

"When did you⁠—"

"While you were arguing with the children about vegetables." He shrugs off his jacket with practiced ease, the dark fabric pooling on a nearby chair. "Mrs. Aldren has excellent timing."

I watch in fascination as he continues undressing, each movement deliberate and unhurried. The firelight plays across the pale planes of his chest, highlighting muscle earned through swordwork rather than manual labor. When he steps into the tub, the water level rises dangerously close to the rim.