Morning arrives like it's proud of itself.
I am not.
I'm barefoot on cold stone, hair tangled, tunic smeared with yesterday's dignity, and being led by a leash like an unruly festival goat. Not metaphorically. Literally. A slim silver collar at my throat—ceremonial, Papa Bear had said, as if that made it less humiliating—and a matching leash in his massive fist. For good measure, there's an ankle chain too. Short. Practical. Designed by someone who has absolutely been burned by a runner before.
I test it once.
Clink.
No give.
"Careful," Papa Bear rumbles without looking back. "It's not meant for sprinting."
"I can tell," I mutter. "Very anti-cardio. Big fan."
We stop in front of a townhouse so tasteful it makes my teeth itch. Tall windows. Pale stone. Discreet guards who look like they've never laughed at the wrong time in their lives. A sign hangs above the door in elegant curling script I absolutely cannot read, but I assume it says something like WE JUDGE YOU SILENTLY.
Papa Bear strides in, dragging me along behind him like a moral lesson. I thought this was bluff and bluster. A scare tactic. Not a bridal appointment with backup orcs.
Inside smells like incense, citrus oil, and money that's never been panicked over.
From behind a curtain of pearl-thread beads emerges the dressmaker.
Elf. Of course.
Tall, willowy, aggressively pretty. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut silk. Hair pale gold and pulled back so tightly it looks like it was sculpted rather than grown. He's wearing layers of gauze and attitude, and he looks at me the way a surgeon looks at an interesting rash.
Papa Bear beams. "Master Tailor. This is my daughter-in-law."
I open my mouth.
The elf doesn't even blink.
"Mm," he says, eyes flicking from my chained ankle to my bare feet to the grime at the hem of my tunic. "Bold choice."
"I'm right here," I say.
"Yes," he replies calmly. "That is the problem."
Papa Bear clears his throat. "She will wed my daughter. We require two gowns."
The elf waves a hand, bored already. "Of course. Two brides. Perfectly normal. Saves on symmetry problems."
I squint at him. "You're not even going to comment?"
He looks at me like I've asked whether the sun plans to rise. "Women marrying women is not the strange part of this room."
Fair.
He claps once. Somewhere, assistants scurry.
"Now," he continues, "traditionally, white signifies virginity. Ivory for… experience. Pearl for ambiguity."
I grin sweetly. "Burgundy."
The room freezes.
Papa Bear coughs. A guard shifts. Somewhere a servant drops something expensive.
The elf considers me. Slowly. "No."
"Worth a try."
"Very," he agrees. "Ivory, then."
"Compromise accepted," I say magnanimously, tugging against the leash just enough to make a point. "Put me in whatever says I survived."
He finally steps closer. Really looks at me. The chains. The bruises I didn't bother hiding. My feet—callused, scarred, unapologetically bare.
"Undress," he says.
Papa Bear stiffens.
"Not like that," the elf adds dryly. "I need to see posture."
I snort. "Careful. Buy me dinner first."
Then—
The curtains sweep back.
And godsdamn it.
The gowns come out.
Not dresses. Statements.
Silk so fine it looks liquid. Lace like frost caught mid-spell. Embroidery that tells stories without needing letters. And the jewelry—trays of it—necklaces heavy with gems, anklets that sing when they move, rings that look like they've ended wars.
I stop breathing.
Actually stop.
My mouth opens before my pride can tackle it.
"Oh."
The elf smiles. Not smug. Not cruel.
Triumphant.
"Yes," he says softly. "There she is."
And just like that, with a chain on my ankle and a collar on my throat, I forget—just for a heartbeat—that I was ever planning to run.
The daughter—gods, I really need to ask her name at some point—bounces in on slippered feet like a basket of champagne and sexual confusion. She's already wearing a silk chemise and the kind of grin usually reserved for girls about to elope with scandal.
When she sees the gowns laid out, she gasps. Not the kind I do when I see jewelry. The kind that says "this is better than sex, cake, and pony rides combined."
"Oh my gods," she squeals, grabbing my hand with alarming sincerity. "We're going to look so cute in matching dresses."
I blink at her. Then at the dresses. Then back at her.
"We're not matching," I say flatly. "If I end up in a puff-sleeved virgin puffcake, I will kill myself with a pearl hairpin."
The elf intervenes before homicide becomes foreplay.
"No," he says, wafting past with a measuring ribbon like he's casting a spell. "You will match in tone. Not in structure. You—" he points at the daughter, "will wear something that whispers grace. And decency."
She claps. "That's me!"
He turns to me. "You will wear something that lies."
I grin. "Also me."
And then—then he snaps his fingers. Two assistants vanish behind a curtain, and return dragging gowns in armfuls like they've looted a palace.
"These," the elf says with a flourish, "were once worn by the twin princesses of Delvida."
I stop. Mid-step. Mid-breath. Mid-thought.
"The who now?"
He nods solemnly. "The twin princesses. Born under an eclipse. Famous for their beauty, their scandalous affairs, and their tragic end."
My mouth is open. I think I might be salivating.
"I love those stories," the daughter sighs dreamily, already slipping into one of the bodices. "They died in a duel over a pirate queen, right?"
"Allegedly," the elf says. "One slit the other's throat with a bejeweled hair comb. Died moments later from a poisoned kiss."
I stare at the gown being held up for me.
It's dark ivory. Deep-cut in the back. Slit high in the leg. Embroidered with a pattern of lilies, thorns, and something that might be weeping eyes.
It is everything I've never deserved and suddenly need.
"Put it on," the elf commands.
I do.
It fits.
Of course it fits.
The daughter twirls in hers, layers of silk whispering around her like smug ghosts. She bumps my hip, giggling.
"You're mine now," she whispers, faux-serious. "Legally and fashionably."
I glance at her, one brow raised. "Only until I pawn the tiara and vanish."
"You wouldn't," she says, eyes wide.
I smirk. "I might."
She smiles.
And in the mirror, for a second, we don't look like a con artist and a noble daughter chained together by circumstance and bridal hysteria.
We look like trouble.
Beautiful, ridiculous, coordinated trouble.
Which is worse. Much worse.