A Storm of Flames and Deceit

XXIII. Electrical Fire

Eris
She hasn't spoken to me since last night, but I deserve much worse. I could fix it all in an instant, I'm sure. She is definitely the forgiving type, despite herself. I suspect she'd forgive me easily.
Too easily.
But I won't apologize.
It's not even out of pride or entitlement which are usually my assumed motivators. No, I won't apologize to her because she doesn't need to believe that I'm sorry.
She's sees the world through rose colored lenses. Scratch that.
She sees the world through a blindfold.
She wants it to be good, wants it to be better. It's all black and white for her, but I'm a grey man. If I let her know I'm sorry, she might just think I'm good, and honestly, I don't think I can deal with her seeing me that way. I don't think I can live up to that standard. I don't think I can live with disappointing her.
It doesn't even matter.
I'm sure enough she'll still be ready for us to go to night court today. She'll bring her best, her worst-whatever it takes, really. She will walk with me until the day her father has been served justice- that much I recognize.
Still, I have to wipe my palms on my trousers before I knock on her door, swallowing a nervous breath. "Coming," she calls breathlessly from the other side, likely still finishing getting ready. She loves to wait until the last minute, so easily veered off course by any whim of distraction. It shouldn't be endearing.
The door swings open, and she stands before me. I'm forced to swallow again as I take her in. Her dress is skimming, barely there. I suppose it's not dissimilar from the dresses in the court of nightmares, but I know for certain I hadn't picked this dress from her. I'm not even sure where she got such a garment. I'll save the question for another time.
The dress is comprised of three panels of some sort of silky, charcoal fabric, thin and flimsy. The panels connect at a concentric silver ring between her breasts, twin cutouts gaping across the curve of her waist, exposing her bare back. The top was narrow too, cleaving her breasts like a painting, storm clouds rolling off of twin mountains. Sheared up the thigh of her long skirt was an exposing slit, showcasing her long legs, capped in silver, strappy heels.
"You look like you want to argue with me again," she says coolly. Fantastic. She still hasn't forgiven me yet- not that I blame her.
"I didn't give you that dress," I say dumbly. She shrugs.
"If I am really to look like your sexual property, I cannot be covered up," she replies, straightening her braids. "I will need to look tempting enough to goad another male into dancing with me."
My brow furrows. I don't understand what she's getting at. "Another male?"
She nods, taking my arm impatiently, walking us upstairs towards the winnowing platform. "From what you tell me, the Night Court knows no boundaries to their own self importance, knows that you try to play by their rules when you visit if only to gain their indenture."
I nod, following.
"It wouldn't make sense for you just to lash out against me unprovoked in front of your allies. It wouldn't be a good strategy to gain their favor," she explains. "I need to make you lose your temper."
She already has. I'm just a frayed rope around her, soaked in kerosine. Anything could set me off. "So you mean to make me jealous?"
She nods. "You'll need to be convincing," she tells me as if that will be some feat. "Will Lucien be there?"
"Yes, but you can't dance with him," I reply objectively, having a difficult time not staring at her gorgeous body, so exposed and taunting before me. "He has a mate. He wouldn't make me jealous- at least not convincingly enough."
"Who then?" She asks. "Give me the name of an unmated male to dance with."
I can feel my insides twitch into such a groaning dread that I don't remember how to think. I'm half tempted to just take her arm and winnow her anywhere else.
"There's someone," she sees it on my face. "But you won't say his name."
Fighting the urge to throw myself back down the stairs we climb, I sigh. "Azriel," I tell her the name of the man I cannot stand. The name of the man that is too handsome for me to even mention to her. The name of the man who will feel like an absolute god if I let him dance with my fiancé.
With any luck, he'll figure out that he's just a pawn in all of this. With any luck, he'll feel like a massive idiot by the end.
"Fine," I groan, not even noticing I'm doing it. "You can dance with him."
"I wasn't asking," she says shortly. "Until then," she fixes me with a look as we step onto the platform, her flimsy dress teasing me in the wind. I have to swallow to keep from drooling. "Try and look like you actually want me." The words sound bitter. I'm so close to refuting her entirely, but she grips my hand tighter, digging her nails into my skin. "Let's go now before we're too late to get anything done."
I nod stiffly, letting myself winnow to the Court of Nightmares, my mind utterly void of all thought besides her lips. Her eyes.
The absence of her smile.
Keir greets us when we arrive, eying Nephele with a particular disdain the way he did all women in immodest clothing. My skin feels warmer, enraged, enflamed. I have thought about burning alive this man more times than I can count. He's quite insufferable- a real ass kisser to me as well. I absolutely cannot stand him in the slightest.
But I have need of him. He is my link to Night. His devotion to me makes me have power over Rhysand and Feyre.
"Keir," I shake him hand, keeping a back on Nephele's spine. "This is my fiancé, Nephele."
She extends her hand, demanding respect with a sinister smile. That was her ploy. She was going to be disruptive all day. Flirting with me affectionately. Defying me openly. Trying to draw reasoning for temper.
And she was going to flaunt her power because she knows Rhys won't be able to resist trying to recruit her. Resist looking into her head.
Keir hesitantly takes her hand, shaking slowly. "It's nice to meet you," he says, not bothering to make it sound believable.
"And you," she replies with a sweet smile, dropping Keir's hand in favor of mine. Her grip is truly electric, running through the nerves in my hand straight to my heart, making it beat unevenly. Then, she drapes are interlaced fingers over her slim shoulder, her scent of lavender hitting my chest as she dips her cheek against it.
"Rhysand is awaiting," he says neutrally, and we follow after him. I find it exceptionally hard then to walk straight, my skin feeling fluttery and light with her so near. I glance at her, and she looks dead ahead, determined.
I wish I was half as focused. My mind wasn't sharp like usual. It was an electrical fire, chaos and panic, peace and soothing. The fire burns hotter, a white hot fury. She glances up at me, giving me a look of furrowed brows and pretty lashes.
What the hell is wrong? She seems to ask, unaware. Get your shit together.
I can't even remember what we're doing.
All I can think is why.
Why now? Why here?
What's so significant about her on my arm? Why am I having this reaction now? While we walk into the lion's den? While we're unalone? While we have a job to do?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why did the mother choose now of all times to make it clear to me that she is my mate?