9. Her Terms #6
Allora's voice cracked like thunder, raw with rage. "Fuck off, Malec. Leave me the hell alone. I'm done with this and all your controlling bullshit! I'm not going to take it anymore!"
She turned toward the door, but his hand shot out, locking around her wrist. His grip was firm, desperate, burnished sand toned eyes burning into her.
"You listen to me," he said, low and fierce. "I was justified in saving your life. You are my wife whether you admit it or not, my soulbound. By law, by right, you belong with me. And if you do not start to realize it soon, I am going to?—"
She ripped her arm in protest, her voice exploding to drown his out.
"WHAT? You'll do what? You can't force someone to love you, Malec.
You can't keep doing this, dictating my life, bleeding me whenever you feel like it, or drugging me to keep me docile and expect me to just accept it!
This isn't some romance novel where the man storms in and shoves his way into the heroine's life until she melts!
I am a breathing, feeling person with agency and drive and fight.
And you—" her chest heaved, eyes black fire, "—you picked the wrong fucking woman to try to domesticate. "
Every word tore from her throat like shrapnel.
Her life wasn't her own anymore. Every decision was monitored, every movement controlled, rearranged to fit his vision of what she should be.
She had gone from soldier to scientist to savior of mankind, dragged across worlds only to become a prisoner and bed warmer for an overly possessive male who wasn't even her own species.
And now he had the audacity to act like she should be grateful.
Like his obsession was devotion. Like his suffocation was love.
Surian stepped forward, her composure cracking, her pale blue eyes wide as she lifted a hand. "Please, both of you?—"
And then Luko entered, arms full of books. He froze at the sight, startled, the volumes tumbling from his grasp to the floor with a dull thud. Some servants had gathered in hallways and corridors at the startling sound of Allora’s fury and Malec’s yelling.
Surian reached out, placing her hand gently on Malec's arm, the one that clamped down on Allora. A sister's touch, steadying. But Malec's body reacted before his mind caught up. Like a feral animal, he thrashed his arm violently, instinctively shaking her off.
Surian staggered back. The sharp crack of her spine hitting the stair railing rang through the foyer.
Allora's eyes flashed molten fire. In a breath she twisted, her training snapping to the surface. She disengaged his grip, pivoted, and drove her foot into his knee. He stumbled, his balance rocked, though his size kept him grounded.
Then they were on each other.
Malec lunged, but not to strike. His hands reached to restrain, to contain, trying to pin her without breaking her.
She struck back, every move precise and wild, her martial arts honed but unfamiliar to him.
Styles he didn't recognize, unpredictable angles he wasn't trained to anticipate.
He blocked, deflected, absorbed her blows with his forearms while trying to catch her wrists.
She was relentless. Every ounce of rage she'd swallowed for months poured out in fists and elbows and kicks.
This was for every choice he'd stolen. For every time he'd spoken over her.
For every door he'd locked. For the life he'd ripped away.
For her father's face when Malec dragged her back.
For every morning she woke up in his bed instead of her own world.
But her body betrayed her. Her limbs felt heavy, her breath coming shorter than it should. The transfusion had helped, but she was still recovering, still weak. Her strikes landed but without full force. Her balance wavered. Sweat broke across her forehead.
Malec saw it. His chest tightened with panic even as he dodged another swing. "Allora, stop. You are not well. You will hurt yourself?—"
"Good!" she snarled, launching at him again.
Tables toppled. A vase shattered across the stone. Paintings crashed from the walls as the siblings' home became their battlefield.
Luko circled, hands raised, shouting, "Enough!
Enough!" but he didn't dare step between them.
He knew better. Two feral soldiers locked in combat could shred anything in their path.
Surian, gasping, pushed herself upright, eyes wide with horror, her hand pressed to her back where the impact throbbed.
"Malec, let her go! You're making it worse! "
But neither combatant heard. They were locked in their own war, neither willing to concede the thing the other wanted most.
Ten minutes of pure chaos, and neither relented.
Finally, they crashed together in a stalemate, her back to the wall, his massive frame pressed against hers.
Both panting, both trembling with fury and exhaustion.
Allora's legs threatened to give out beneath her.
Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
But she refused to fall. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
Malec's voice came first, ragged, breath hot against her face. "Why... why do you fight me, Allora? When all I want—" his voice cracked, raw, "—all I want is to keep you safe. Alive and well."
Her eyes blazed as she spat back. "Because you only care about my body, my health. Not my mind or my heart or my place in the world. And that—" she shoved him, his shoulders hitting the wall, another picture frame shattering down, "—that is a problem for me."
He still held her wrists, unyielding, but his head bowed as her words struck him. His chest rose and fell, his voice softer now, almost pleading.
“Allora… I am tired of fighting you. I do not wish to stand at odds with the one who holds my heart. Tell me what must be done for you to see it. For you to understand that our bond cannot simply be cast aside. It carries weight.”
Her answer was a blade to the gut. "Malec, you care more about the bond than me, more about your obsession than my autonomy. This relationship you've built in your head is a fantasy. Because I am not the one who bows and never in my life have I been the one who lets anyone control her."
His breath left him in a hiss. For a long, heavy moment, his head dipped in surrender. He had chosen her, one female who would never bend. And gods help him, it was exactly because of that spirit, the burning fire inside her and her wildness, that he loved her beyond reason.
Allora's chest rose and fell, her wrists still locked in his grip. She stared straight into his arid stone hues and gave him the answer he had demanded.
"The answer is simple, Malec," she said, voice steady now, no longer shouting but carrying the weight of finality.
"In order for us to stop tearing each other apart, to live, to love freely, you must give, not just take.
You must love, not dominate. And most importantly stand beside me as a partner, not over me as a warden. "
For a breathless moment, an awkward hush filled the hall. Even the servants who had gathered at the edges dared not move, their eyes wide.
She tilted her head, a bitter smile curving her lips. "But the truth is... you won't. Not that you can't, but that you refuse. You have already decided for us, Malec. And that is all I need to know."
Her body softened, her fight draining from her limbs.
Not because he had won, but because she had.
The clarity hit her all at once. He would not change, he was who he was: her captor dressed as a lover, a warden wearing the mask of a husband.
And she was not his teacher, or his project, not his salvation.
She was a woman with her own needs, own missions and her own destiny.
It was not her responsibility to remake him.
She stepped back, tugging her wrists free from his grasp with surprising ease.
For the first time that morning, she smiled.
Not at him, but inwardly, to herself. She would play the part.
Nod, obey, let him think she had bent and when the time came, when the opening Kirelle had slipped into her hands presented itself, she would run.
Run far, run fast and be free.