6. Malrec
MALREC
Ididn't sleep.
Not well, anyway. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of my quarters, watching shadows from the volcanic vents outside shift and dance across the stone. Replaying that moment in the stables when I said her name and she flinched.
Not like I'd struck her. Like something detonated inside her skull and she had to physically brace herself against the supply station to stay upright.
The way her breathing changed. The flush that crept up her neck. The way her hands trembled before she locked them white-knuckled against the stone.
I've seen humans react to proximity with demons before—fear, usually, sometimes arousal if they're the type drawn to power dynamics they can't control.
But that wasn't either of those things. That was something else entirely, something that looked almost like recognition, and it's been eating at me ever since.
When I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed.
She was in the upper estate. In my private quarters, which should be impossible because humans aren't permitted in that section unsupervised.
But there she was, moving through the space like she belonged there.
Her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of tied back for work, and she was wearing something simple—one of those soft tunics humans favor when they're not in labor garments.
And she was smiling.
Not at me, exactly. At something she was doing.
Arranging things on a table, maybe, or organizing books—the details don't quite hold when I try to recall them now.
But the smile itself was so clear. Genuine, unguarded, the kind of expression I've never actually seen on her face because every time she looks at me it's with poorly concealed hatred.
In the dream, I walked into the room and she glanced up. Still smiling. Like my presence was expected. Welcome, even.
"You're back early," she said, and her voice carried that same warm familiarity as her expression.
I moved toward her—didn't think about it, just moved—and she turned fully to face me. Reached up to brush something off my shoulder with casual intimacy, and I caught her wrist.
Not harshly. Just held it, my thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her skin.
"Missed you," I said, and the words felt so natural. So obvious.
She laughed softly. "You saw me this morning."
"I know."
Then I kissed her. Slow and deep, one hand sliding into her hair while she melted against me like we'd done this a thousand times before. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against mine. Like this was just another evening in a life we'd been living together for years.
It felt so real.
Real enough that when I woke, I could still taste her. Could still feel the weight of her hair between my fingers, the warmth of her breath against my mouth. Could still hear that laugh, soft and intimate and completely at odds with the sharp-edged woman who glares at me across the stables.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, and stared at my empty quarters.
Just a dream. An extremely vivid, oddly specific dream about a human I barely know and definitely don't like.
Except it didn't feel like just a dream. It felt like a memory I don't possess.
I've been turning that over in my mind all morning. The impossibility of it. The way my subconscious apparently decided to construct an entire domestic fantasy around someone who hates me and who I find infuriating on multiple levels.
Beautiful, yes. Lenna is objectively attractive in that raw, unrefined way some humans manage—all warm brown eyes and expressive features that telegraph every emotion even when she's trying to suppress them.
But beauty doesn't negate the fact that she's reckless, opinionated, and seems determined to get herself killed through sheer proximity to creatures that could tear her apart without effort.
I don't have time for this. Don't have space in my life for whatever confused tangle of attraction and irritation is apparently brewing beneath my conscious awareness.
And yet here I am, watching her move through the morning tasks with unusual quietness, and I can't stop thinking about that smile from the dream. The one I've never actually seen. The one my mind apparently invented wholesale and decided felt right.
She hasn't looked at me directly since yesterday. Keeps her head down, focuses on her work with more intensity than necessary. The tension in her shoulders suggests she's as unsettled as I am, though I doubt for the same reasons.
I should say something. Address whatever happened when I said her name. Establish clear boundaries and return our interactions to the functional antagonism that at least makes sense.
Instead, I've been mostly silent. Moving through my own tasks with mechanical precision while trying to sort through why this human has taken up so much mental space in less than two weeks.
Irritation flickers every time I look at her.
That much is consistent. The way she moves too confidently around the beasts.
The casual defiance in her posture even when she's being careful not to speak out of turn.
The fact that she looked at Azhrael on her first day and smiled, like the most dangerous creature in my stable was something to be approached with warmth rather than appropriate caution.
But then I remember the dream. Her laugh. The way she felt in my arms.
And the irritation tangles with something else I don't have a name for.
Focus. I have actual work to do.
Azhrael has been temperamental as fuck since yesterday.
Worse than usual, refusing commands he's never refused before, snapping at me when I try to adjust his containment field.
The beast needs to get out of his enclosure—no creature, no matter how dangerous, should be confined indefinitely.
The volcanic pastures beyond the estate exist specifically for this purpose, giving the beasts space to roam under controlled conditions.
But getting Azhrael out requires bridling him first. And bridling him requires cooperation I'm clearly not going to receive today.
I approach his enclosure with the containment bridle and he immediately backs away, his massive form shifting into a defensive posture. His eyes—those luminous voids that register too much awareness—fix on me with what can only be described as resentment.
Oddly, it does not feel with the same emotion as it does when Lenna looks at me that way.
"We're doing this," I tell him. Firm. Direct. The tone that has always worked before.
He growls low, the sound reverberating through the stone.
I step closer, maintaining eye contact, projecting authority through posture and presence. "You need to feed properly. That requires leaving this space. Which requires the bridle. You know this."
Azhrael is the only beast I own completely. He is not one I am moving, training, or mending. He is mine and mine alone because I am the only one who can handle him. Who will care for him.
Apparently, he's decided one-sidedly that we are done with that arrangement.
Another growl, deeper this time. He shifts his weight, and I can see the tension coiling through his form. Ready to resist.
Fine. We can do this the difficult way.
I extend my power, reaching for the binding threads that anchor him to my authority. They're still there—I can feel them—but they're different. Looser. Like he's testing the limits of his obedience rather than accepting it as absolute.
The bridle moves forward, suspended in my magic, and Azhrael snaps at it. Teeth like obsidian blades close on the containment field instead, and the wards flare bright enough to make me squint.
"Stop."
He doesn't.
I push harder, forcing the binding threads tighter, and he roars. The sound fills the entire stable, making the other beasts react with agitation of their own. Vexris slams into her barrier. Khorvas rears back from his feeding station. Even Sythrak, usually calm, begins pacing.
This is getting out of control.
I try again, approaching from a different angle, but Azhrael's resistance only intensifies. He's not just refusing the bridle—he's refusing me. Actively pushing back against my authority in ways that should be impossible for a bound beast.
After the third failed attempt, I step back and exhale slowly through my nose.
This is her fault. Has to be. Ever since Lenna arrived, Azhrael has been different. Like her presence shifted something fundamental in how he responds to containment, to control, to me.
I glance toward where she's working near the supply station. Still quiet. Still deliberately not looking my way.
An idea forms. One I immediately hate.
If Azhrael responds to her—and he clearly does, given how he calmed instantly when she approached—then maybe she can get close enough to allow the bridling. It's practical. Efficient. Makes use of the strange connection between them that I still don't fully understand.
It's also potentially suicidal for her.
The thought makes something stutter in my chest. A skip-beat of alarm that has no logical basis because if she dies, she dies.
One human laborer is replaceable. I've lost dozens over the years to various stable accidents.
Her death would be unfortunate but ultimately inconsequential in the larger scope of operations, especially since she's the one that has insisted on getting near them.
Except I can see her smile from the dream. Can hear that soft laugh. Can feel the warmth of her body against mine in a memory that isn't real but felt more genuine than half my actual experiences.
Fuck.
I shove the thought away, annoyed at myself for even having it. It sours my mood further, though I'm a prickly bastard on my best day.
This isn't complicated. I need Azhrael bridled. Lenna has demonstrated an ability to approach him safely. The logical course of action is clear.
If she gets hurt, that's on her for being reckless enough to accept the task.
My heart doesn't believe that for a second, but I'm ignoring it.