9. Her Terms #3
The robe was plush velvet, dark green, warm against her skin. Malec had it made for her, of course, stitched with his brand on the breast because everything had to be marked as his. Always his. The special Awyan who labeled the world to remind himself it belonged to him.
Luko trailed behind as she walked out the door, his eyes wary. "Are you well enough to stand?" he asked cautiously. "I can fetch Malec. He'll carry you downstairs."
"I'm fine," she lied, pulling the robe tighter around her.
They reached the landing just as Malec and Surian ascended the stairs. Malec's perceptive eyes locked on her instantly, and his mouth thinned with disapproval. "Back to bed, Allora," he ordered, his voice like iron snapping shut.
Surian followed, her arms balanced with a tray of tea, fruit, and warm breads, the steam curling into the air. She looked between them, her pale blue eyes flicking with quiet disapproval of her brother's tone.
Allora let out a sigh that rattled with annoyance. "You need to stop worrying about stupid things," she muttered, her sarcasm biting even through the fatigue. "It was just a migraine."
Malec didn't know the word, but he knew enough.
He knew she was not fine, not even well.
His gaze softened even as tension held his body rigid, his heart twisting with the truth he could not unsee.
She needed him and would always need him.
And he was there to give her everything—his body, blood, even his breath—because in his mind she already owned every inch of him.
Allora planted her feet, her jaw tight as she glared up at him. "I'm not eating or drinking, not a damn thing," she snapped. "Not until I've had a bath. And then, maybe, I'll come downstairs and eat if I feel like it." Her chin lifted, dark eyes sparking with the challenge.
His mouth pressed into a hard line, but he didn't answer immediately.
He was a master strategist, a commander who had broken armies with patience and precision.
And though Allora was unlike any foe he had ever faced, unpredictable, wild, sharp-tongued and he knew when to yield ground.
This was one of those times. If he pushed her now, she would dig her heels in deeper, claw herself bloody before bowing. He could not risk it.
So he inhaled slowly, letting his voice soften, coaxing, the tone he used when soothing a spooked horse or a young recruit on the edge of panic.
"Of course, dove. If you wish for a bath first, then you shall have it.
But at least allow me to sit in the room, hm? To be sure you do not slip, or drown."
Her expression shifted—confusion first, then suspicion, and finally a reluctant resignation.
A small, quiet surrender. To her, it felt like a victory, like she had bent him to her will.
And perhaps, in her mind, she had. But Malec only wanted nearness, he wanted his eyes on her long enough to be certain she did not collapse into the steaming water and never rise again.
She huffed, muttering under her breath, but she turned toward the bathhouse anyway.
Her body was unsteady, and he caught up to her in two strides, slipping his arm lightly around her shoulders.
Behind them, Surian let out a long, exasperated sigh. She pivoted gracefully, her pale blue eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "All the way up here," she muttered as she turned toward the stairs, "for nothing."
Luko fell into step beside her, his golden eyes bright with mischief. "At least let me carry the tray for you," he offered, reaching for it.
Surian brushed him off without even glancing at him. "You'll spill it."
He grinned, unoffended, trailing her down the stairs with the ease of a shadow.
Steam curled around the room, clinging to the stone walls, filling the air with a heavy warmth. Malec stood at her side, his hands already reaching for the cloth. "Allow me to help you wash, dove."
Allora's head whipped toward him, eyes narrowed. "Go outside and water a plant or something."
His brows knit together, but instead of pushing, he crossed to the corner of the room and pulled a chair forward, placing it near the tub. He didn't sit immediately. Instead, he retrieved a brush from the vanity, then settled into the chair behind her.
Allora sighed but didn't protest. She knew she wouldn't get him to stop doting on her. At least his hands would be busy.
Malec gathered a section of her hair, the dark coils still damp with sweat, and brought the brush to the crown of her head. He pulled downward in one smooth stroke.
The bristles caught immediately, yanking her head back.
"Ow!" Allora yelped, her hand flying to her scalp. "Malec, what the hell?"
He froze, guilt flickering across his face as he released the brush. "I... I apologize. I did not mean to hurt you." He studied the brush in his hand, then her hair, genuine confusion in his wheat-colored eyes. "Your hair is so soft, so thick. It is unlike Awyan hair. I thought..."
"Yeah, well, you can't just drag a brush through it like I've got three strands of wispy hair like all the other girls you've been with," she muttered, rubbing her head.
Malec's expression shifted between amusement and exasperation. He set the brush aside and leaned closer, his voice low. "There have been no other girls, dove. How many times must I tell you this?"
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Just... get my hair wet first. Then section it. Then brush each section starting from the bottom and work your way up to the top. That's how you brush thick hair."
He studied her for a moment, processing the instructions with the same focus he applied to everything. Then he nodded and carefully wet her hair with water from the tub, his movements deliberate and gentle. He divided it into sections with surprising patience, then took up the brush again.
This time, he started at the ends, working slowly upward just as she had instructed. His touch was careful, almost reverent, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "I will learn this properly. So I do not hurt you again."
As he gently brushed the curls his eyes drifted over her quietly, his gaze soft, cataloguing every detail.
Her eyes were a little sunken, her lips chapped.
Yet her frame had changed. She looked fuller, as though her body had been nourished by an unseen source.
His gaze caught on the faint scar just beneath her rib.
He leaned forward, his voice quieter, genuinely curious. “Where did you get that?”
She followed his eyes and lifted a hand over the scar, almost as if shielding it.
"I was stabbed. A fight back home. Some men were trying to kidnap orphans.
Humanity was getting desperate, and people started doing things I don't even want to think about.
I kept them off long enough for the kids to run. "
He sat back, thoughtful, his fingers still working methodically through another section of her hair, brushing from the ends upward with the careful precision she had taught him.
His mind conjured the image of her bleeding out in an alley, fighting savages alone in a collapsing world.
The thought curdled his stomach, hardened his resolve.
She could never go back to that. Not while he drew breath.
Here, she would be safe. Cherished. She would never again lift a blade against monsters who would harm her.
He moved to the next section, separating the thick curls with gentle fingers before bringing the brush to the ends once more.
When his eyes lifted, she was already looking at him. And she smiled, quick, soft, but mischievous. A laugh slipped out of her throat, low and sudden, and she turned her face away.
He frowned, confused but intrigued. "What amuses you?"
"Nothing," she said, shaking her head as though to brush it away.
"Tell me," he pressed, his voice gentling.
Her shoulders shook with another laugh, and finally she glanced back at him, a sly grin curving her mouth. "From now on, I'm going to call you Grandpa."
For a beat he only stared at her, stone-still.
Then his mouth curved, a slow dangerous smirk.
"Grandpa," he repeated, tasting the word.
He leaned forward, voice low. "Careful, dove.
I will remind you precisely how little of an elder I am when I take you to bed again.
" His eyes narrowed, voice turning more serious.
"I am nowhere near a grandparent, my ridiculous canariae.
I have the vigor of ten Canariae males."
Allora smirked, dragging the cloth lazily across her arm. "Maybe in body. But in spirit? You're an old fart, Malec. Controlling, bossy, lecturing. It's annoying."
A sigh pulled from the depths of his chest, long and weary.
He worked through the final section of her hair, the brush gliding smoothly now from ends to roots, her curls soft and detangled beneath his careful hands.
Every day with her was a battle. "Finish quickly," he told her, voice edged with steel as he set the brush aside.
"So we may eat. I will not indulge your whims when it comes to your health. "
Allora rolled her eyes, tossing the wet cloth against the rim of the tub. "Oh my god," she muttered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "He does it again. Boss, boss, boss."
Ignoring her bite, he reached for a soft drying towel and rose from the chair. "Up," he said, holding the fabric open. "Come. I will dry you."
With a dramatic huff, she pushed herself to her feet. But instead of stepping into the towel as he expected, she slipped from the opposite end of the tub, water streaming down her bronze skin in rivulets.
His brows knit as he watched her veer toward the door. "Allora?—"
She did not turn back. Her bare feet slapped against the stone as she strode out, dripping everywhere, completely naked. Water splattered in her wake, her thick curls clinging wet to her shoulders and back, her body on full display as she marched down the hall.