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I look at the flower.

Refusal changes no part of the decree. Zira made that clear. If I leave it in Draxon's hand, guards can force my compliance or record the bond without it. The court will remember a human who refused and was subdued.

Acceptance offers them the picture they arranged. Draxon presents the gift. The human takes it. Order survives.

Neither choice belongs to me.

So I require another.

I reach for the blossom.

Draxon's claws remain carefully angled away from my skin. My thumb brushes the side of his forefinger as I pluck the silver bloom from his grasp. Heat passes from his carapace into my hand.

The contact lasts only an instant.

My body remembers more than I permit my face to reveal.

I draw the blossom toward me and examine its rigid petals. Lolean is beautiful while rooted in Galmoleth's soil. Cut from the plant, the metallic tissue becomes brittle. Within hours, exposure will oxidize the silver to lifeless black.

An appropriate gift for a bond created by decree.

Zira lowers her hand. "The court witnesses acceptance. By the authority of the Council, Beatrix Ferryman is bonded to Lord Draxon Obsidius and placed within his house."

The decree settles around me without chain or collar.

The result is the same.

Draxon's gaze remains on mine.

I search his face for the demon who promised me a future, then vanished. His features offer no apology. No explanation. Only the brutal patience of a lord waiting to see what I will do with the symbol he was ordered to place in my hand.

Perhaps he expects obedience because I accepted it.

Perhaps the Council does.

I hold the blossom.

The first petal bends against my palm with a faint metallic snap.

Draxon's eyes lower to my fist.

I tighten my grip.

Petals fracture. Brittle edges press into my skin without cutting it. The stem buckles between my fingers, and the bronze veins break into glittering fragments. I grind the ruined flower until its shape disappears.

A ripple of movement passes through the galleries.

I keep my attention on Draxon.

His face remains controlled, but the silver in his eyes brightens beneath the storm-light entering through the open galleries. His head tilts by a fraction.

That movement I remember.

Interest.

Not approval. Not anger. Recognition that I have refused the limits of the choices offered to me.

I turn my fist over.