5. Lenna
LENNA
Ilove the stables in a way I probably shouldn't.
Not the oppressive heat that clings to my skin like a second layer, or the sulfurous air that makes my eyes water after too many hours down here.
Not the constant awareness that one wrong move could result in dismemberment, or the way the containment wards hum at a frequency that makes my teeth ache.
But the beasts themselves? They make sense to me in a way nothing else in this place does.
They don't pretend. Don't dissemble. When Vexris is pissed off, she slams into her containment barrier until the wards flare.
When Khorvas wants attention, he huffs and scrapes his claws against the stone until someone acknowledges him.
There's no subtext, no hidden meanings, no careful navigation of hierarchies I'll never fully understand.
Just honest, straightforward communication through action.
Unlike the demon who runs this entire operation.
Malrec has been particularly unbearable this morning.
I can feel his presence like a storm front moving through the walkways—heavy, oppressive, making everything around him tense and reactive.
The beasts pick up on it immediately. Vexris is pacing in tight circles, her tail lashing against the barrier with enough force to make the wards spark.
Khorvas won't settle, keeps rearing back from his feeding station like something's spooked him.
Even Sythrak, who's usually calm enough to almost seem docile, is restless, shifting his weight and growling low in his throat.
The entire stable feels charged with something volatile.
And at the center of it all is Malrec, moving through the enclosures like a contained explosion looking for an excuse to detonate.
He's been at this for the past hour—checking containment fields with more force than necessary, adjusting ward configurations that don't need adjusting, barking corrections at me for things that aren't actually wrong.
I've learned to read his moods by now, unfortunately.
This isn't his usual brand of controlled irritation.
This is something sharper, more unstable.
Which means I need to stay out of his way.
I focus on my tasks, moving efficiently through the morning routine. Clean the walkways. Check the feeding stations. Ensure all tools are properly stored and accounted for. Simple, straightforward work that should keep me invisible.
Except Malrec seems determined to make that impossible today.
"These tools are filthy."
His voice cuts across the space between Azhrael's enclosure and where I'm working. I glance up to see him standing in the entrance to Vexris's containment area, holding up a cleaning implement like it personally offended him.
"I cleaned them yesterday," I say evenly.
"Then you did it poorly." He tosses the tool out onto the walkway with enough force that it clatters loudly against the stone. "Again."
My jaw tightens, but I don't argue. Just move to retrieve the tool, already mentally cataloging how many times I scrubbed the damn thing yesterday to get it spotless.
Before I can reach it, another tool comes flying out of the enclosure. Then another.
"All of these," Malrec says from inside, his tone clipped and harsh. "Unacceptable. Do your job properly or I'll find someone who can."
Heat flares in my chest—sharp, immediate anger that I have to physically suppress. I crouch to gather the scattered tools, keeping my movements controlled even though what I really want to do is throw them back at his head.
He's done this before. Found something to criticize that isn't actually a problem, just so he can exert control. Remind me that he's in charge, that I'm disposable, that my presence here is contingent on his approval.
I hate him for it. Hate the way he wields authority like a weapon. Hate the casual cruelty in his tone, the complete absence of recognition that I'm a person rather than just another tool to be managed.
The other tools land on the walkway with successive clatters as Malrec apparently decides the entire maintenance kit is now beneath his standards.
Vexris roars from her enclosure, the sound reverberating through the stone, and Malrec barks something in demonic at her that makes the beast retreat slightly.
Everything is agitated. Everything is tense. And I'm trapped in the middle of it, cleaning up the literal mess while trying not to let my anger show on my face.
"The feeding station in Khorvas's enclosure hasn't been properly secured." Malrec emerges from Vexris's space, his ember-gold eyes scanning the walkway until they land on me. "Fix it. Now."
"I secured it this morning."
"Then you did it incorrectly." He moves past me toward the next enclosure, his shoulder nearly brushing mine in a way that feels deliberate. "Everything you do is half-finished. I don't have time to constantly correct your incompetence."
My hands tighten around the tools I'm holding. The metal digs into my palms.
He keeps walking, already moving on to find the next problem, the next thing to criticize. His posture is rigid, controlled in that way that suggests he's barely holding something back.
Good. Let him be miserable. Let him stew in whatever is making him this insufferable today.
I return to my work, jaw clenched, focusing on the repetitive motions to keep from saying something that will get me thrown out of the stables entirely. Or worse.
The morning drags on in the same vein. Every task I complete is scrutinized and found wanting.
Every movement I make seems to irritate him further.
He snaps at me for being too slow, then for moving too quickly near a containment barrier.
Criticizes my tool placement, then the way I'm standing, then the fact that I'm breathing too loudly near Sythrak's enclosure.
It's relentless.
By midday, my nerves are frayed to the point where I can feel them humming beneath my skin like the containment wards.
I'm not the only one affected—the beasts are increasingly unsettled, responding to the tension in the air with agitation of their own.
Vexris keeps ramming her barrier. Khorvas won't eat.
Sythrak paces his enclosure with a restlessness that sets off warning instincts I can't quite name.
And Malrec just keeps pushing.
I'm crouched near the supply station, organizing the tools he threw earlier, when I hear him bark something from inside Azhrael's enclosure. The beast responds with a low, resonant growl that vibrates through the floor.
"Unacceptable," Malrec snaps. There's a sharp crack of magic, and Azhrael roars.
My hands still on the tools. That sound—the beast's response—doesn't sound like submission. It sounds like fury.
"If you're going to behave like a feral creature, I'll treat you like one."
Malrec's voice is hard, colder than I've heard it, and something in my chest twists uncomfortably. He shouldn't be pushing Azhrael like this. Not when the beast is already agitated, not when everything in the stable is on edge.
Another crack of magic. Another roar.
I straighten without thinking, my body moving before my mind catches up. "He's not going to respond to that."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Silence.
Then Malrec emerges from the enclosure, moving with that controlled precision that somehow makes him look more dangerous than if he were storming. His eyes lock onto me, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch.
"What did you say?"
I should back down. Should apologize. Should remember that he could have me removed from the estate with a word, that arguing with him is pointless and potentially dangerous.
Instead, I hold his gaze. "He's stressed. They all are. Pushing him harder isn't going to fix anything."
"You presume to tell me how to handle my own beasts?" His voice drops lower, each word deliberate. "You, who have been here less than a week? Who knows nothing about infernal creatures beyond the most basic maintenance tasks?"
"I know when something isn't working."
It's a stupid thing to say. Reckless. But the words come out anyway, fueled by hours of accumulated frustration and the sick feeling in my stomach from hearing Azhrael's distress.
Malrec takes a step closer. Then another. The space between us shrinks until I can see the subtle flare of his nostrils, the way his jaw tightens.
"You know nothing." His voice is quiet now, which somehow makes it more dangerous. "You are here to perform basic labor under my direction. You do not question my methods. You do not offer opinions on matters beyond your comprehension. And you certainly do not speak to me in that tone."
I should look away. Should drop my gaze submissively and mumble an apology.
I don't.
"Maybe if you weren't such a—" I bite the words back, but not quickly enough.
"Such a what?" He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the ember-gold of his eyes reflecting the dim rune-light. "Finish your sentence."
My heart pounds against my ribs. Every instinct screams at me to back down, to defuse this before it escalates further.
Instead, I turn away, moving toward the supply station with deliberate calm. "Nothing. It's nothing."
I make it three steps before his voice cuts through the space between us.
"Lenna."
I freeze.
It's the first time he's said my name.
Not "human," not "laborer," not the dismissive "you" he's been using since I arrived. My actual name, spoken in that deep, commanding voice that somehow makes the syllables sound different than when anyone else says them.
And something in my mind—no, deeper than that, something in my body—reacts.
The walkway tilts.
Not physically. The stone beneath my feet remains solid.
But my perception shifts violently, and suddenly I'm not standing in the stables anymore.
I'm somewhere else, somewhere warmer and darker, and that same voice is in my ear but different.
Lower. Rougher. Groaning my name like a prayer, like a curse, like something desperate and necessary.
Lenna.
I feel hands on my hips—large, strong, digging into my skin like I'm the only one holding him there.
Feel the weight of a body above mine, pressing me into soft surfaces I can't quite define.
Feel my own hands on a broad chest, dark gray skin hot beneath my palms, and I'm moving with him, moving, and the pleasure is so intense it steals my breath—
I gasp.
The stable snaps back into focus with jarring suddenness. My hands are braced against the supply station, knuckles white, and I'm breathing too hard. Shaking.
What the fuck was that?
Behind me, I hear Malrec shift his weight. "What are—"
"I'm fine." My voice comes out rough, unsteady. I don't turn around. Can't turn around. My face feels hot, and my body is buzzing with something I absolutely cannot name right now.
It wasn't a memory. It can't be a memory. I've never—we haven't—that's insane. Impossible.
But it felt so real.
I could feel the texture of his skin beneath my hands. Could hear the exact timbre of his voice in my ear. Could feel the way my body responded to his, like we'd done it a hundred times before, like we knew exactly how to move together.
My hands are still shaking.
"Lenna."
He says it again, and this time my entire nervous system lights up in response. My skin prickles with awareness, and heat pools low in my stomach in a way that makes me want to sink through the floor and disappear entirely.
No. Absolutely not. This is Malrec. The demon who has spent the past two weeks making my life miserable. Who looks at me like I'm an inconvenient obstacle to his perfectly ordered routine. Who I hate with a clarity that should make this physical response impossible.
And yet.
I force myself to turn, to face him, because refusing will only make this worse. His expression is unreadable—that same controlled mask he always wears—but there's something in his eyes I can't quite interpret. Confusion, maybe. Or suspicion.
"What?" I manage.
He studies me for a long moment, and I have to actively resist the urge to look away. To run. To do anything other than stand here while my body betrays me with every accelerated heartbeat.
"You look unwell," he finally says.
"I'm fine."
"You're flushed."
"It's hot down here."
It's a weak excuse, but it's all I have. My mind is still reeling, trying to reconcile the impossible flash of sensation with reality. Trying to understand why hearing him say my name felt like a trigger, like my body recognized something my conscious mind can't access.
Malrec's eyes narrow slightly, and for a horrible moment I think he's going to push. To demand an explanation I can't possibly give.
Instead, he just looks at me for another beat, then turns away. "Get back to work."
He walks toward the descent corridor, his movements controlled and precise, leaving me standing by the supply station with my heart still racing and my thoughts in complete disarray.
I watch him go, and I hate that I'm watching. Hate that my eyes track the line of his shoulders, the way he moves with that predatory grace, the breadth of his frame that my hands apparently remember even though my mind insists it's impossible.
He's undeniably attractive.
It's not the first time I've thought it, even if I hate it.
But it's true. He's tall, powerfully built, with features that would be striking even if he wasn't currently making my life a living hell.
The dark gray skin, the ember-gold eyes, the sharp angles of his face softened just slightly by the fall of his silver hair.
And apparently, according to whatever the hell just happened in my head, my body knows this. Responds to it in ways that bypass my conscious hatred entirely.
I force myself to move, to return to my tasks, but I can't stop replaying that flash. The feel of him above me. The sound of my name in his voice, desperate and raw. The way my body fit against his like we were designed for it.
It keeps looping in my mind, intrusive and insistent, no matter how hard I try to focus on something else.
I glance toward where Malrec disappeared, and my pulse jumps again.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Because I hate him. I hate him. But my body apparently didn't get the memo.