5. Boundaries and Bargains #4
Malec looked up at her, his hair unbound around his shoulders, his eyes softened by a tenderness she refused to name.
"She's getting dressed," he drawled, and the corner of his mouth curved wider.
"I offered to help her." He gave a theatrical sigh, as if the rejection had been a personal tragedy.
"She declined. Quite violently." He didn't sound offended.
If anything, he sounded delighted. "Still angry, but I'm tearing down her walls. One little tantrum at a time."
The smile on Surian's mouth flattened. Stars save us, she thought. He looks like he just discovered the meaning of life.
But before she could needle him, his head tipped just so, his gaze narrowing into that predatory focus she'd come to know too well. "Why are you looking for her?"
There it was: the shift. From lazy lover to suspicious interrogator in half a heartbeat.
Surian raised an unimpressed brow and folded her arms, unbothered. "You sound like you're interrogating me. In my own house."
He said nothing, only waited, the stillness a pressure against her composure.
She sighed dramatically and swept past him, starting up the stairs again.
"I'm helping her dress," she said over her shoulder.
"As I said earlier, some of the clothes I lent her need to be tailored.
I'm taller and thinner, if you hadn't noticed.
She's got a bountiful figure that doesn't fit in my gowns. "
Malec's mouth twitched, wicked amusement flashing in his faint-colored eyes. "You could use more girth in your figure. I find women with a little extra weight widely regarded as alluring."
Surian paused on the step above him, turning just enough that he could see her smirk, lethal yet regal. "Good for you," she purred sweetly, voice dripping with venom. "But unlike some, I don't have to trap my lovers in cages to feel desired."
His smirk cracked for just an instant.
Triumph glowed in her chest as she turned and continued her ascent, her robe flowing behind her.
Malec stared after her, jaw tight, expression darkening with that particular brand of wounded pride only she could provoke.
He looked like he might follow her and argue, but thought better of it, grumbling under his breath as he stalked back to the parlor.
Surian didn't look back. She didn't have to. She knew she'd struck gold. And in this family, getting the last word over Malec Talandros was rarer and sweeter than any victory she'd ever tasted.
Meanwhile, Allora stood in the middle of the opulent guest chamber, immobilized, trapped quite literally in a monstrous tangle of silk, clasps, and brocade.
Her head had somehow gone through the wrong opening, her arms were pinned like trussed poultry, and her glorious, unrepentant mane of curls spilled from every gap in the fabric like a creature trying to claw its way to freedom.
Of course this would happen. Of course. After the morning she'd had, wrestling with that insufferable, smug, horny frost demon who thought a few orgasms entitled him to her entire life, now she couldn't even dress herself properly. This was his fault somehow. Everything was his fault.
She twisted, trying to free her left arm, and only managed to tighten the fabric around her ribs.
Damn him. Damn his stupid smile and his stupid contentment and the way he looked at her like she'd hung the moon when all she wanted was for him to suffer a little. Was that too much to ask?
An abrupt knock sounded at the door before she could curse her way to freedom.
Surian swept in with her usual feline grace, only to freeze mid-step. One pale brow rose. Her mouth twitched. And then she lost it completely.
Allora looked, in Surian's opinion, exactly like a rat caught in a very expensive velvet bag.
The laughter that burst from Surian wasn't a dainty, polite giggle.
It was a full-bodied, unrestrained gale that left her clutching the doorframe for balance as her robe swished around her ankles.
"Oh, goddesses, Allora!" She tried, valiantly, to catch her breath.
"What are you... what is this? You look like a stuffed scarecrow! "
Allora's face crumpled into a portrait of murderous dignity. Her brow twitched. In a voice low enough to scare demons, she growled, "Help me, or I swear I will rip this overpriced bedsheet to shreds with my bare hands."
Surian wiped her eyes, still snickering, and finally approached, lifting the garment delicately off Allora's head like she was freeing some indignant creature from a net.
Layer by layer, she unraveled her, until Allora was standing there, hair exploding in all directions, scowling down at the gown like it had personally insulted her ancestors.
With an aggrieved huff, she glared at the golden-yellow monstrosity. "Awyan clothing is too damn complicated. Who needs this many clasps? Were your designers allergic to common sense?"
Surian was still smiling as she smoothed the fabric over her arm. "It is complicated. And elegant. Unlike that sad excuse for a tunic you came here in." She paused, then raised her chin. "Would you rather your own clothes?"
Allora made a valiant attempt to straighten her hair, muttering as she tried to figure out which fasteners went where. "I'm fine with your hand-me-downs. I'm not picky."
Surian’s amusement faded. Her blue gaze sharpened, turning keen and almost somber. “You need to understand this.”
Allora paused.
Surian's voice lowered, silken and steel at once. "If Malec is staying in the Capitol, that means you'll be attending events. Dinners. Gatherings with him. You can't appear looking like a servant. You need to reflect his station."
Allora threw her hands up, exasperated. "Does everything in this place have to orbit around Malec Talandros and his enormous ego?"
Surian didn't so much as blink. "Yes," she said, utterly matter-of-fact.
"Always." She let that sink in, her expression unflinching.
"Because Canariae are nothing here. You have no rights, no standing, you are just an object, his object.
Your existence revolves around him, whether you accept it or not. "
It was like a punch in the gut. Even though Allora already knew it, hearing it spoken was its own kind of blow. The gown suddenly felt heavier, tighter, as though the silk itself was trying to remind her of her place.
Finally, after what felt like an hour, she was properly dressed.
The layered golden gown clung to her hips and breasts in a way that would have made her grandmother start praying.
The tight cuffs at her wrists felt like manacles.
The high collar felt like a noose. Beneath it all, a deep blue underskirt shimmered like dusk.
It was beautiful. Impeccable. Surian had excellent taste.
And Allora hated it with every cell in her body.
She turned to the mirror, studying her reflection with a look of withering disdain. "Can I just get some pants and boots? Like a normal person?"
Surian's eyes widened as though she'd suggested a public execution. "Not unless Malec wants you to." She made a faintly disgusted sound. "And he doesn't. He likes you in feminine riches."
Allora stared at herself, feeling like some spoiled noble's pampered pet. A dark-skinned doll in gilded wrapping.
"Perfect," she muttered. "This is exactly like when rich people back home dressed their dogs in ugly little sweaters."
She tilted her head, squinting critically at her own reflection.
Yeah. She was definitely a damn poodle. And this was the world's most expensive sweater.
The polished black carriage moved gracefully through the cobbled Capitol streets, sunlight glinting off its ornate golden trim.
Inside, Surian sat proudly, her arm looped tightly through Allora's, as though they'd been friends not for weeks but decades.
She couldn't stop smiling. A real female friend.
A brilliant, fire-hearted woman who challenged her, listened to her rants, and soon would be her sister-in-law.
Maybe not by law yet, but it was written in every look Malec gave her.
Allora, though, looked annoyed. A soft crease had settled between her brows, her full mouth pressed into a line of exasperation. Surian followed her gaze when she realized it wasn't directed at her. It was directed out the velvet-lined window.
Trailing behind them like a patient executioner was the unmistakable figure of the Silver Fox himself. Malec, mounted on that hulking war stallion, his pale braid glinting in the sun, his uniform immaculate, his desert glare fixed straight ahead as if daring the city to try him.
His color-starved regard never wavered, though when he caught her looking, he lifted his gloved hand in a lazy wave. The arrogance of it made her jaw clench.
She turned back to Surian, huffing. "He needs a hobby."
Surian laughed outright. "Oh, he has one. It's you."
"That's not a hobby. That's an obsession that needs professional intervention."
"It's love," Surian corrected sweetly. "And possibly a mental affliction."
"Definitely a mental affliction," Allora grumbled.
Surian only shook her head, amusement softening to concern. She let her eyes linger on Allora's face, searching. "How are you feeling, truly? After everything? If you're too tired, we can go back."
Allora arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "I'm fine. Strong as an ox. I could bench-press a bear if I wanted to."
Surian blinked, clearly baffled. "I don't know what that means, but good." Satisfied enough for now, she settled back into her seat.
Allora didn't answer, staring out at the city that blurred past. Beautiful white stone buildings with green tiled roofs, copper lanterns hanging from ironwork balconies.
She wished she could walk it on her own, or just with Surian.
A day without guards or possessive shadows.
A day she could pretend she was still someone free.