After Malec successfully wrangled one ridiculously drunk Canariae away from the cellar of alcohol she'd all but emptied, the four of them ended up in the main parlor, lounging beneath golden light, laughter fading into soft idle chat.
It was… pleasant.
Surprisingly nice.
Even Surian and Erolyn, who hadn't drunk nearly as much as Allora, seemed to settle, simply taking in the rare peace, the glow of soft conversation in the air.
Then, with a sigh and a slur, Allora gave in—eyes fluttering closed as she curled up against Malec's chest, her breath warm, slow, the sound of her sleep a melody he'd longed to hear.
Malec sat utterly still, savoring every moment. The feel of her in his arms, her scent—sweet with hints of plum and wildflowers, a note of home he could never quite grasp.
She was alive, happy, safe. That was enough.
More than enough.
Still… the ache in him was constant.
A week of sleeping alone—in his cousin's damn bed, no less—his body had ached for hers, for the feel of her, the warmth of being not just near her, but in her, part of her. But he shoved the thoughts away.
No.
He wouldn't force her. He never would.
She wasn't ready. He hadn't earned that. Not yet.
Surian watched her future sister-in-law pass out, then stood. "I'll put her to bed."
Malec rose, lifting Allora into his arms with ease, protective, resolute. "I'll do it."
Surian raised a brow, her voice dry. "And that's all you're going to do?"
Malec met her gaze, serious, his voice soft but firm. "I'd never… not to her. I know the consequences."
Something flickered in Surian's eyes—respect. She nodded. "You can stay… if it's okay with her."
At that, something shifted in Malec's face—the edges of tension lifted, and for the first time in days, hope softened him. He looked… happy.
He turned, carrying Allora up the stairs, and it was bittersweet. Every step, treasured, the quiet rise and fall of her breath music to him.
Halfway up, Allora murmured, her voice slurred, "M'not tired… party's not over…"
Malec smiled, heart aching, and instinctively kissed her forehead. "The party's over, little one."
At the third floor, he entered the guest room, closing the door behind them softly.
He laid her gently on the bed, lighting lanterns, casting soft golden light over the room.
Her eyes remained closed, but she mumbled, "Hot… need… drink…"
Malec approached, kneeling beside her. Her gown heavy, suffocating for her hot skin. With deft fingers, he began to unfasten her dress, sliding it off carefully, reverently.
He laid it over the vanity, then reached for a pinkish-red nightgown, thin and meant for summer.
Too light. It was winter.
He made a mental note to have warm clothing brought immediately.
Malec removed her heavier undergarments, never once lingering, never indulging—only caring. Loving.
He dressed her in the soft nightgown, tucked her in, pulling the covers to her chin.
He stood above her, gazing at her peaceful face, her lips parted slightly in sleep, her hair a halo of dark curls around her dark skin.
Just as Malec began to lean down, intending only to place a soft kiss on her forehead, Allora's hand shot up, grabbing him by the collar, and before he could even register what was happening, her warm lips crashed into his.
It was fast, fierce, and wild.
His breath caught, his hands clenched into fists on either side of her, completely staggered as she devoured him. Her lips were hot, needy, and demanding, and it stole every coherent thought from his mind.
He groaned softly, moving closer, desperate to deepen it, to taste more, to lose himself in her.
And she let him—for a moment.
Allora pushed off the covers, her feverish body pressing tight against his, her skin flushed with heat, her movements purposeful. Malec's whole body was wound tight, his pulse pounding like a war drum. He didn't even realize his hips were moving against hers, lost in pure instinct, in red hot desire.
She was starting the fire, and he was already burning.
Was she too drunk to remember her anger? Or was she just as hungry as he was? Malec didn't know. Didn't care.
He wanted this. Gods, he needed it. Probably more than she did.
And he was going to take it—every piece she offered.
His hand slid clumsily down her side, fingers curling beneath the nightgown, drawing it up as his hand cupped her breast, the heat of her skin making his head spin.
A moan escaped her lips, and he nearly lost control.
He shifted, his heart racing, laying back with her now straddling him, kissing him fiercely, her dark curls falling around them, their world reduced to breath, touch, and want.
She rode him, grinding, teasing, every movement purposeful—calculated. His hands were everywhere, clutching at her as she drove him to madness, her body starting a fire he couldn't contain.
Still fully clothed, his boots on, armor undone, Malec was undone—for her, only her.
She always made him feel like this—out of control, lost, but not alone. Never alone.
And he loved it. Loved her.
His hands shook as he fumbled with his belt, desperate to relieve the pressure, to have her fully—but then, she swayed, her body slowing, faltering.
"Allora?" he gasped, grabbing her arms, breath ragged, voice hoarse. "What's wrong?"
She placed her forehead against his, her breath hot, her smile mischievous—and then she closed her eyes and collapsed against him, completely unconscious.
Silence.
Malec lay there, stunned, hard, aching, his heart hammering, mind spinning.
And slowly, horrifyingly, he realized.
She'd done it on purpose.
She'd used him, tormented him, brought him to the edge—and left him bereft, denied, destroyed.
And despite the frustration, despite the agony of not having her—
Malec smiled.
Because she was fire, she was fury, and he'd never loved her more.
____________________________________________________________________________
Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.
Hell yes, she knew.
Every touch, every grind of her hips, every hot, stolen kiss—calculated revenge. Her heart still boiled with fury, still aching for retribution after everything Malec had stolen from her.
And that little game?
That was a taste of justice.
And god did it make her feel so much better.
If she hadn't been drinking, she might not have gotten away with it—but they all thought she was a delicate Canariae pet, a little ornament to be pampered and protected.
Let them think that. Let them underestimate her.
It was perfect.
Back in her world, they drank often—when the shipments came in, when reality grew too heavy, when extinction felt inevitable. Drinking was survival. A way to feel something other than despair.
She could take her liquor. Always had.
Sure, she was drunk—there was no escaping the hangover marching toward her like a vengeful god—but she'd wanted to make Malec pay.
And she did.
She wanted leverage, control, power—something to turn the tide. And this? This was the one thing she knew she could use to pull him apart, leave him aching, helpless, devastated.
And god dammit, it worked.
Her head throbbed, memories of how heated he'd been, how eager… She chuckled.
Shame on him, she thought, for doing that to a drunk woman.
She laughed, full and wicked. Despicable.
He had no idea she was fully aware. He was a beast, pure instinct, all blood and desire.
And she shut it down.
BAM.
That smile on her lips? Earned. She'd wear it all day.
Until she turned—
And her smile died.
There, behind her, was Malec—half-naked, under the covers, one muscled arm beneath his head, the other draped over her waist, like he was guarding her in his sleep.
Her eyes widened, her breath caught.
HOW the hell did she not feel him behind her?!
His breathing was even, soft, his face… peaceful, the warlord at rest, no armor, no grimace—just an Awyan lost in sleep. If she didn't hate him so thoroughly, she might've admitted he looked handsome.
Might have.
Why was he in the bed?!
Carefully, slowly, she slid out from beneath his arm, inch by inch, like escaping a sleeping lion. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but pure rage.
She nearly tripped over his boots and coat—discarded haphazardly on the floor.
Muttering curses under her breath, she found a robe, pulled it tight around her, and escaped, leaving Malec peacefully asleep, probably dreaming of her.
That goddamn albino ape.
She'd win this war yet.
Oh, she'd make him pay in full.
____________________________________________________________________________
Surian sat at a stone table in the lush garden, the early morning sun casting soft gold over the dew-covered leaves. A plate, neatly arranged, was set across from her—waiting.
For Allora.
The soft crunch of footsteps drew her attention, and Allora appeared, waving lazily, the hem of her robe trailing behind her. Surian nodded in acknowledgment, always more composed than expressive.
Allora, still irritated by her unwanted bedmate, flopped into her chair with a sigh. "You're too serious, Surian."
Surian gave a half-smile. "I know."
But then her gaze sharpened, voice low and cautious. "Did Malec… do anything? Forceful?"
Allora grinned wickedly, her eyes lighting up with pure mischief. "Actually, I was the forceful one."
Surian's eyes widened, her whole face contorting into a picture of shock and confusion. "What in the gods' names are you talking about?"
Allora leaned in, recounting every detail—the kiss, the teasing, the rising heat, how she'd lit him on fire and left him begging, only to pass out in his arms, victorious.
Surian blinked slowly, processing it all. "Oh…"
She shook her head, in disbelief, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Only you could get away with that. But just so you know—if he wakes up in a bad mood, the rest of us are the ones who'll pay for it."
Allora waved her off. "Please. I'll protect you from Malec."
Surian raised a brow, thoughtfully amused. "Thanks, but if he does come for me, you better be ready to use everything you've got to keep him at bay."
Allora laughed, voice light and free for the first time in days. "I promise."
They ate breakfast peacefully, savoring the quiet—two women tangled in power games but finding solace in each other's company. Surian gossiped about politics, her dry wit making Allora giggle between bites of warm bread and honeyed fruit.
Then, as the morning air grew warmer, a lazy figure sauntered toward them—Erolyn, of course. His gloves twisting in his hands, his stride that of a man who never hurried, not for anyone.
Surian glanced up. "Want breakfast?"
Erolyn waved her off, smirking. "Can't. I've got business at the Canariae auction today. No time."
He turned to Allora, eyes playful. "Before I'm exiled to the border to live a boring life as a feral hunter, I'd like to see you again."
Allora rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
She stood, giving him a tight hug, holding onto him longer than she expected—until a deliberate cough sliced through the air.
They froze.
Still embracing, they both turned slowly… and there he was.
Malec, leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed, his face calm—too calm—but his wheat colored tan eyes burned with ice and fire, locked on them with a gaze that cut to the bone.
Infuriated. Silent. Seething.
Allora's blood turned to fire. Erolyn's smile froze, and even Surian flinched.
Because that was not a man to be trifled with.
That was a beast denied.
And now, he was coming for what was his.
Allora let go of Erolyn, her expression cooling into indifference as she settled back into her chair, her back turned fully toward Malec—a deliberate dismissal.
A move that sliced clean through him.
But Malec didn't look at her now.
His tan eyes stayed locked on Erolyn, unblinking, burning.
Erolyn, sensing danger, didn't linger. "Well, Surian," he said with a half-smile, "always a pleasure." He stepped close, kissed her cheek, and with hands raised in mock surrender, began to walk past Malec, careful not to touch him.
Malec didn't move at first. Just watched. Then followed.
As Erolyn made his way down the garden path, Malec matched him stride for stride, silent, looming, the duffle of tension tighter with every step.
He was in pain.
His body was tight, his muscles aching with frustration, the denial of last night still blazing in his veins. After a week of agony, of no contact, no touch, no relief, he'd been on the brink—and she had led him there, only to leave him wrecked.
And now?
Another male. Close. Desired. Touched.
Malec could barely breathe through the burning in his chest.
At the gate, they stopped.
Erolyn turned, voice even. "What do you want, Malec?"
Malec's jaw clenched. His voice was low, like thunder ready to strike. "I was denied… the one thing that should have been mine—anytime I wanted. Denied. And then given to another."
Erolyn raised a brow, gaze cool. "Look… I actually feel sorry for you. I do. But this?" He gestured between them. "You created this with your overbearing, shitty personality. You made your bed, Commander. Lie in it. It's not my fault she prefers me."
Malec's tan eyes turned molten, his fists clenching, fingers twitching to strike. He rolled his shoulders, trying to calm the rage, breathing through his teeth.
But not here. Not in front of her. She was just yards away.
Malec's chest heaved as he stared Erolyn down, heat flooding his veins, every muscle tight, trembling beneath the weight of his own restraint. His voice came out hoarse, jagged like an Awyan at war with himself.
"You don't get it," he rasped, tan eyes burning, wild. "You have no idea what I'm feeling—what it's like to be this close to losing everything I've ever wanted… and not being able to touch her."
His jaw clenched, raw anguish flashing across his face, brief but undeniable.
"I've gone days without her. No touch. No voice. No relief. Last night, I was there, about to have what I've been starving for, and she took it away. She left me with nothing—just this ache, this… fire I can't put out."
Malec's hand twitched at his side, his knuckles bloodless, his breath shaky.
"And now I have to watch you—you, who takes nothing seriously—touch her like she's yours." His voice dropped, barely audible, laced with venom and desperation. "The only thing keeping me from tearing you apart right here is her. She's the line between you and what I'll become if you cross it again."
His eyes locked on Erolyn's, haunted, furious, unraveling.
"I'm holding on by threads, and you're pulling them loose."
A pause.
A breath.
"If she chooses you… I'll burn the world down before I let her run to your arms."
His words hung in the air like a death sentence, and in them was all the pain, lust, and love twisted into madness Malec could no longer contain.
Erolyn smirked. "Then let me share her. Make her happy. Maybe then she'll be more receptive to you."
Malec didn't hear the rest.
All he heard was "share."
His hand shot out, grabbing Erolyn's hood, yanking it tight, choking the breath from his throat as he held him close. The message was clear. Final.
Erolyn didn't struggle. He didn't need to.
Malec's quieter threat was even more terrifying. "If she chooses you… there won't be a you for her to run to."
He released him.
Erolyn coughed, rubbing his neck, but his gaze stayed steady. "If you want her to look at you again, Malec, stop clutching her like a possession. You're driving her into my arms. You've made it too easy."
Malec stood silent, jaw tight, because he wasn't wrong.
And that truth?
Burned worse than anything else.
Malec took a step back, thinking, seething, yet crumbling.
Erolyn pulled his hood up, mounted his horse, and without another word, rode off.
Malec ran his hand through his messy, undone hair, a rare sign of his internal disarray, then turned, forcing himself to walk—not run—back to the garden.
To her.
To the only thing that mattered.
Malec stormed back toward the gazebo, his long strides furious, his jaw tight with fury and restraint. He could still feel Erolyn's smug words echoing in his skull, still feel the ache in his body—unfulfilled, denied, and now mocked.
As the structure came into view, he paused.
Breathed in.
Tried to calm the storm inside him.
Inside the gazebo, Allora and Surian still sat in soft conversation, laughter gone but the mood light. Allora hadn't spared him a glance since this morning, and it gnawed at his sanity.
Malec stepped inside, his posture composed, but barely. He sat beside Allora, silently claiming the space next to her, and without ceremony, reached for a piece of fruit, biting into it like it would stop the fire in his chest.
Surian looked at him, her gaze judging, perceptive. She could see he was wound tight, could feel it like tension in the air. Malec ignored her, keeping his eyes fixed on Allora's face, smiling softly, pleading silently—but she didn't look up.
He was invisible again.
And it tore him apart.
"Are you alright, Malec?" Surian asked, her tone carefully neutral.
He forced a breath, trying to mask the agony of being near Allora and yet untouched, unseen. "Of course," he replied, but even he could hear the fracture in his voice.
Surian's eyes narrowed. He was breaking. And that meant he was dangerous—to everyone.
She glanced at Allora, calculating, and asked, "Are you ready to go back to the North?"
Malec's head snapped up, eyes flashing toward his sister in irritation. She was trying to make things harder for him, pushing a topic that would only ignite his need to dominate again. He wanted to tell her to shut up.
But he didn't.
Because he wanted to hear Allora's voice.
For a moment, Allora was still, then her shoulders slumped, and she slowly turned her face to him—finally—and it lit something inside him, something warm, hopeful.
"Are we going back?" she asked, her voice soft, vulnerable, those dark, sad eyes piercing straight into him. She was doe-eyed, playing the part—and he knew it.
But he didn't care.
She was looking at him. Speaking to him.
Malec's voice softened, melting, as he leaned toward her. "We have to, soon. Winter's coming, and once the snow seals the paths, we'll be trapped for four months. No way in, no way out."
Her lips parted in thought. Then, her eyes lifted again, imploring, and she asked, "Would you… consider staying here? In the Capitol. Just for the winter?"
Malec's heart lurched, his mind spinning—because suddenly, he had leverage again.
She wanted something. And he could give it.
And he could use it.
His control returned, the desperation easing just enough for him to breathe without pain. His aching need could be satisfied, if he played it right.
In his mind, he imagined it—her in the snowy Capitol, her wonder, her joy, and his arms around her, guiding her through festivals, grand halls, his world.
He didn't need to return North. He had governors to handle the province. He'd only ever gone back to be alone. To hide.
But with her, he wanted the opposite.
His eyes gleamed, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "And what would I get… in return?"
Allora huffed, offended, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair with a scoff. The idea of paying to remain in society rather than be exiled to a frozen prison? Typical.
Malec chuckled, loving every second of her tantrum, basking in it.
Surian, desperate to keep Allora near her, intervened. "Alright, Commander," she said dryly. "What are the conditions for the two of you to stay in the Capitol?"
Malec stretched, lazy and predatory, one arm sliding behind Allora's chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel her warmth. He glanced at Surian with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
"I'll consider it," he drawled, voice low and sultry, "if… certain conditions are met."
He didn't look at Allora, but he felt her tension, knew she was listening, that he had her interest, that she was hooked.
And in that moment, he wasn't powerless.
Not anymore.
Allora was tired.
Tired of the games, the bargaining, the constant back-and-forth that defined every interaction with Malec. Every time she wanted something, she had to negotiate her freedom, tailor her needs around this pompous ass.
It is what it is.
She wasn't free. Not really. She never had been.
She was a Canariae—no, a human, owned by a high-ranking Awyan officer with power, influence, and control in a world where her species wasn't just lesser—they were commodities.
But was it much different than her own world, where women had to navigate power with charm, submission, or defiance—all with consequences?
She didn't think so.
She was just… tired of it all.
No matter where she went, no matter what world—she was always lesser. And to survive, she had to play along.
Fine.
Her arms still crossed, jaw clenched, Allora let out a sharp breath. Begrudgingly, she unwrapped herself, sat up straighter, and forced the most innocent, sugary expression onto her face.
If he wanted to play, she'd play.
With syrupy sweetness, she looked at him. "Alright, Malec… what are the conditions?"
Malec's eyes lit up—finally, progress. He smiled like a man who had won, lifting a hand to brush a dark curl from her cheek, fingers lingering far longer than necessary. He could feel the heat of her rage under her skin.
She was fuming, but she smiled back.
A delicious lie.
He leaned in, voice low, silky. "First… you're either with me or Surian anywhere outside this house. You don't step foot off this property alone. Second—you're not to touch anyone but me… and Surian."
Her jaw twitched, but she said nothing.
"And third…" Malec's voice dropped further, thick with meaning. "You allow me access to you."
Allora blinked slowly. "Access?"
He grinned, devilish, confident. "Daily acts of affection. Physical contact."
She stared at him, eyes narrowing. "Define 'physical contact.'"
Malec leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, molten hum, his lips dangerously close to her ear, every word laced with heat and torment.
"Remember…" he whispered, "the palace… the night before the Festival of Fall…"
His eyes darkened with hunger, but beneath it—pain, longing, the memory seared into him.
"When you knelt for me… in that empty chamber, not out of anger—but with that look in your eyes… Like you knew exactly what you were doing."
His breath hitched, and his voice turned rougher, a confession dragged from his soul.
"You weren't angry. You weren't lost. You were in control—using your body, your mouth, to make me need you, to bind me to you."
He swallowed hard, remembering the way her hands slid up his thighs, the smirk on her lips, the way she'd taken him into her mouth with slow, deliberate precision, her dark eyes locked on his, drinking in every moment of his unraveling.
"You gave me that sweet mouth," he said hoarsely, "and you ruined me. Not with love. Not with kindness. But with power. Your power."
His voice fell to a whisper, thick with torment.
"And then you left me with nothing but the memory of it… and this fire I can't put out."
He pulled back, eyes gleaming, voice sharpened by the raw edge of desperation.
"That's the 'contact' I want, Allora. That's what I've been starved for."
Allora froze.
Her body stiffened, and then slowly, slowly, she turned to face him—eyes wide, mouth parted, and Malec caught it—the twitch. That twitch in her brow that meant detonation was imminent.
"Excuse me?" she snapped, voice pitching up, sharp enough to slice stone. "EXCUSE ME?!"
Malec's grin widened, a wolfish flash of teeth, and he reclined in his seat like he'd just told a delightful little joke.
Allora's hands went up, then down, then up again, as if words failed her—until they didn't.
"You're a horny dog! A walking, talking erection! That's all you are!"
Surian choked on her tea.
Malec was already laughing, and that just poured gasoline on the fire.
"Oh, you think this is FUNNY?! You absolute slut!"
She stormed off, her robe whipping behind her like war banners, stomping across the garden, fuming.
Malec stood, still laughing, and jogged after her, calling, "Allora, come on, I was complimenting you! You were brilliant!"
Her response?
She snatched a rock from the path, turned, and hurled it.
Malec yelped, ducking, the stone whizzing past his head. "Gods! You're trying to kill me! I love this! Do it again!"
"Shut up, you albino ape!"
Another rock, smaller this time, bounced off his shoulder plate.
"You horny bastard! Rutting dog! You're lucky I don't light you on fire! I hate you!"
He was doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, hands up as he stumbled sideways, trying to dodge the onslaught.
"Sick, twisted, obsessed BEAST!"
A flower pot—where did she even get that?!—missed his head by inches, smashing on the garden path.
"Allora—please! My ribs—I'm dying!"
She didn't stop—her wrath was divine, her aim terrifying, and he was absolutely enthralled.
Malec chased her all the way back to the townhouse, dodging whatever she could grab, grinning like a man possessed, his heart singing with every insult, every curse she spat at him.
And through it all, one thought echoed in his head:
Gods, I love her.
Surian sat alone in the gazebo, blinking slowly, sipping her tea, eyes half-lidded, completely forgotten.
She sighed, unimpressed. "Why does everyone always forget I exist?"