22. The Necessary Evil #2
Malec crossed the chamber with measured steps, his boots striking stone with quiet purpose.
When he reached her, his hands lifted and came to rest on her shoulders.
His touch was steady, warm, firm—but not crushing.
There was no urgency in the way his fingers curved over her collarbones, and no possessive, iron grip of ownership. Only reassurance.
His voice, when it came, was softer than the fire coiled beneath his ribs. Low, private, meant only for her. "Do not worry. I am taking care of everything."
Before she could shape a reply, he leaned forward. His lips pressed against her forehead in a kiss that carried no heat or claim. Only just a grounding presence. A vow in the language of touch. A silent promise: I am here.
When he pulled back, his hands moved from her shoulders to smooth down the fabric of her tunic, adjusting the collar that didn't need adjusting, ensuring the silver fox emblem pinned near her heart sat perfectly straight.
The familiar gesture betrayed his anxiety even as his expression remained calm.
Melodie caught his hands gently, stilling them. "Malec. I'm fine. The handmaids were nice. The guards didn't bother me. I stayed in the room like you asked."
His jaw worked for a moment before he nodded. "Thank you."
She tilted her head, studying his face. "How bad was it?"
"They signed." His voice carried grim satisfaction. "Every single one of them. The marriage contract is legally binding now. You are protected under Awyan law."
Melodie's brows lifted. "They just... agreed? That easily?"
A dark smile curved at the corner of his mouth. "Let us say I provided adequate motivation for their cooperation."
"You threatened them?"
"I ensured they understood the consequences of refusal."
"So you threatened them?"
"Emphatically."
Despite everything, Melodie felt a small laugh escape. "You're insane."
"For you, perhaps." He pulled the small leather envelope from his inner pocket and held it out to her. "Your signature is the only one missing."
She took the envelope, her fingers brushing his as she did. The weight of what it represented settled over her—protection, yes, but also chains of a different kind. A contract that bound her to this world, to him, in ways a portal couldn't sever.
But she'd already made her choice. Strategic. Necessary. And maybe, in some small way she wasn't ready to examine too closely, wanted.
"I'll sign it," she said quietly. "But I have this feeling I cannot shake. I need you to tell me what happened with Surion. What's he planning?"
“I do not know but I am sure he is plotting,” His voice carried quiet finality. “And that is why you and Vaeril are coming with me to my home, well beyond the Capitol’s gaze and safely outside Surion’s reach.”
"And he can't follow?"
"There are special sanctions in the northern territories.
Legal protections older than Surion's reign.
It is legally impossible for him to enter or exercise any authority there without probable cause.
He would need council approval, which he will not get.
" Malec's jaw tightened visibly. "You will be safe there. "
Melodie nodded slowly, processing the information. The frozen north and all that goddamn cold ass snow. His territory. Where his word was law and Surion's schemes couldn't reach.
Malec's hands tightened slightly at her waist. "Thank you. For staying in the room where it was safe. I needed to know you were protected while I dealt with the council. I cannot think properly when I am worrying about your safety."
She raised a brow. "You mean you can't terrorize nobility effectively when you're distracted."
"Precisely."
He released and moved to the desk, returning with a quill and ink. He held them out to her, his voice gentle. "Sign."
Melodie's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"The contract. It needs your?—"
"I know what it needs." She took the quill from his hand with more force than necessary. "But if I'm going to be your wife willingly, you better remember I'm not a child you can order around. Ask. Don't command."
Malec's arm slid around her, pulling her close as a smile curved at his mouth. "Yes. Anything you say, my little dove. You are the matriarch and I will gladly submit"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't quite suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. "Better."
She moved to the desk and unfolded the document, scanning the rows of signatures. Nobles. Council members. Surion's bitter scrawl. And there at the bottom, Malec's elegant script.
She dipped the quill in ink and bent over the parchment, writing slowly and carefully. First, her name in their flowing Awyan script: Mehlodien il’Jaksohn ko’Talandros. Then, directly beneath it, she signed again in English letters: Melodie Jaxxon Talandros.
Malec shifted beside her, still holding the contract. Then, without hesitation, he lowered himself to both knees on the stone floor.
It wasn’t a soldier’s bow or a commander’s stance, but the Awyan traditional posture of union, a gesture as old as their first tribes.
The movement was stiff, even awkward, as though ceremony did not suit him.
Yet when he looked up at her, his expression lay open and unguarded.
A quiet smile touched his mouth, and beneath it rested a rarer warmth.
Hope.
When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ritual. "Melodie, will you unite with me and recognize me as your Vash'telor in all matters of the mind, heart, and spirit? Will you share your life with me, and allow me to be your true and only soulbound?"
For a moment, Melodie just stared at him. Oh. So Awyans DO propose.
Then she let out a breath, one brow arched high. "That is the weirdest way to propose I've ever heard. If I were grading you? You'd get an 'E.' For eww."
The corner of his mouth twitched, no offense taken. If anything, his smile deepened, warmed by her irreverence. He leaned forward until he was eye-level with her. "Melodie," he said, voice dropping softer now, pleading but still edged with stubborn certainty. "Just say yes."
She narrowed her eyes, irritation flickering across her face. But before she could turn away or bite back, Malec laughed. The sound was low, rough, but genuine. A release of tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He closed the space between them and pulled her into a kiss.
And this time, she kissed him back.
Her arms wound slowly around his shoulders, drawing him closer. Her lips pressed into his with a tenderness far removed from the anger, desperation, or fevered madness that had marked their encounters before. This carried a weight he had never tasted.
Acceptance.
Malec melted into it, one hand sliding up her back, the other cradling her face as if she might vanish if he held too loosely.
He drank in her acceptance like a thirsty animal at a spring, greedy and undone.
The world outside could burn, the council could riot, the empire could shatter.
All of it meant nothing compared to this.
Because at last, she wasn't fighting him.
She was choosing him.
The dining hall reeked of roasted root vegetables and braised fowl, but neither Surion nor Surin touched their plates.
The food had gone stone-cold, congealed fat gleaming in the candlelight.
Hours had passed since the council dispersed.
Some members had left angry, others terrified.
All had needed reassurance from Surion that he'd already set plans in motion to neutralize the situation Malec had created.
The awareness of what was coming smothered the table as they sat through what might be their last fragile moment of peace, pressing down with the particular weight of dread.
The doors burst open.
A messenger stumbled inside, drenched in sweat, sash twisted around his waist, eyes wild. His voice cracked as he shrieked, "The eastern procession has reached the gate! His Majesty King Kael is upon us—arrival imminent!"
The air went razor-sharp. A single, suspended heartbeat.
Then—
“FUCK.”
Then Surion exploded from his chair, the legs screeching against marble as it toppled back. He hurled his napkin across the table, the cloth slapping wetly into the cold dishes. His robes snapped behind him as he stormed toward the exit, each stride quickening with barely contained panic.
Halfway to the door, he whirled on Surin, eyes blazing. "You'd better be ready when that wretch starts to explode."
Surin rose with deliberate calm, dusting phantom crumbs from his sleeves as if he hadn't heard the venom in his nephew's tone.
But inside, a weight pressed heavy and merciless against his chest. What they were about to do to Malec felt like fastening an iron chain around his own heart and throwing it into the sea.
He gave a single, grim nod and followed.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Surion cursed under his breath with every furious step, the word spitting from his lips like venom.
His voice climbed higher, louder, unhinged, until the very walls of the corridor seemed to vibrate with his rage.
By the time they reached the towering palace gates, his fury was a living thing, snarling and ready to burst.
The procession had arrived in full force. An opulent sea of polished steel, billowing royal flags, and armored horses gliding with ceremonial precision. Eastern banners shimmered in blue and silver, the sigil of a twisting serpent clutching a flame dancing along the wind.
At the head of it all, riding atop a powerful dapple-gray destrier, was a vision sculpted from arrogance and silk.
King Kael of the Eastern Lands.
The stallion moved as though it knew its rider was royalty.