7. Lenna
LENNA
The feeding pasture is warm and breezy this afternoon. The air carries that sulfuric warmth I've grown used to, and Azhrael stands beside me, his massive form radiating the kind of contained power that should terrify me but doesn't.
My hand rests against his jaw, fingers tracing the ridge of armored plating there. "You're such a good boy," I murmur, and the words feel natural. Easy. Like I've said them a hundred times before.
Azhrael leans into my touch, that low purring resonance rumbling through him. His luminous eyes half-close, and if a creature this dangerous could look content, he does.
I laugh softly, scratching along the base of one massive horn. "Beautiful, deadly boy."
Movement catches my attention—Malrec approaching across the volcanic rock, his stride long and confident. Azhrael's contentment immediately shifts. He pulls back from my hand slightly, turning his head toward his master with a soft snarl that carries unmistakable possessiveness.
But Malrec just laughs.
That sound lights me up. Full and genuine, his entire face transforming with the motion. The rigid control he always wears dissolves completely, replaced by something warm and unguarded. His ember-gold eyes crinkle at the corners, and his mouth curves into a grin that makes my chest tighten.
He's beautiful like this. Open. Real.
"You've completely stolen my beasts," he says, shaking his head with continued amusement. "Azhrael used to at least pretend I was his favorite."
The familiarity in his tone wraps around me like a physical thing. I love the playful way he teases me, the warmth of his rough voice. It makes me smile in return.
I turn back to Azhrael with exaggerated sympathy, stroking his jaw again. "He just has good taste. Don't you, gorgeous?"
Azhrael huffs agreement, the sound vibrating through my palm.
Malrec closes the distance between us, and I feel his approach in my entire body. That awareness that goes beyond simple proximity, like every nerve ending orients toward him without conscious thought. His hand catches my wrist, tugging me gently away from the beast.
I let him. Turn to face him with a smile I can't quite suppress.
His other hand comes up, fingers sliding beneath my chin to tip my face up toward his. He's still grinning, that devastating expression that makes him look years younger. Less burdened. The pad of his thumb brushes along my jawline, and the touch sends heat cascading through my system.
"I am not giving you up to a beast," he says, voice dropping into something lower. Rougher. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to meet my eyes. "No matter how magnificent he is."
Behind us, Azhrael huffs again—this time with what sounds like resignation—and moves away across the volcanic rock. His massive form recedes into the landscape, giving us space but not disappearing entirely. Like he's accepted this particular hierarchy even if he doesn't love it.
Malrec's thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath catches. The heat between us builds like the volcanic vents around us, pressure seeking release.
"Len," he murmurs, and the shortened version of my name in his voice does something to my composure.
I should respond. Should say something witty or warm or anything that matches this moment. But I can't quite form words, too focused on the way he's looking at me. Like I'm the only thing that exists. Like the rest of the world—the estate, the beasts, all of it—has temporarily ceased to matter.
His head lowers, and I rise on my toes to meet him.
The first brush of his mouth against mine is gentle. Testing. His lips are warmer than I expected, softer, and the contact sends electricity down my spine. My hands come up to rest against his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his work tunic, feeling his heart beating steady and strong.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides from my chin into my hair, fingers threading through the loose strands, and the other wraps around my waist to pull me closer.
I melt into him, my body remembering exactly how to fit against his.
How to move with him. How to respond to the subtle shift of his weight, the pressure of his fingers, the taste of him that feels both new and achingly familiar.
He kisses like he does everything else—with intensity and focus and absolute commitment. Like this is the only thing that matters right now, and he's determined to do it thoroughly.
My fingers curl into his tunic, holding on because my legs feel unsteady. The heat between us builds, volcanic and consuming, and when he makes a low sound against my mouth—something between a groan and my name—I feel it in my bones.
His thumb strokes along the base of my skull, and—
—I wake up.
The transition is violent. One moment I'm wrapped in Malrec's arms, tasting him, feeling the solid reality of his body against mine. The next I'm staring at the dark stone ceiling of my quarters, alone, heart pounding like I've been running.
My hand flies to my mouth, fingers pressing against lips that still feel warm. Still feel kissed.
What the fuck.
I sit up too quickly, and the room tilts. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, and I can still feel him. The weight of his hand in my hair. The pressure of his fingers at my waist. The taste of him lingering at the back of my throat.
It was a dream. Obviously a dream. I was asleep in my quarters, not standing in the feeding pasture with Azhrael. Not being approached by a version of Malrec who smiles like that, who laughs like that, who looks at me with warmth instead of irritation.
Not being kissed by him like we've done it a thousand times before.
But it felt real.
More than real. It felt like a memory, the same way that flash did when he said my name. Like something my mind is trying to show me that I should already know.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to ground myself. Trying to separate dream from reality, imagination from experience. But the boundaries feel blurred in ways that make my chest tight with something close to panic.
This is the second time now. The second time I've experienced something that feels like genuine memory involving Malrec in contexts that make no sense.
First the intimacy I could have sworn I felt—his body moving with mine, his hands on my hips, the physical familiarity that shouldn't exist. Now this.
Casual affection. Easy banter. Him laughing, for fuck's sake, looking at me like I matter to him as more than just another laborer in his stable.
None of it makes sense.
I barely know him. We've barely spoken beyond terse exchanges about work assignments. He clearly finds me irritating at best, and I've spent most of my time here trying not to look at him because every time I do, something uncomfortable twists in my chest.
There's no basis for dreams like this. No foundation for my subconscious to construct these detailed fantasies where we're... what? Together? Familiar? Something that goes beyond master and laborer into territory that feels far too intimate?
It would be one thing to have a sex dream because, fine, he's hot. But a random flash while I'm walking away from him fully awake? A dream of him smiling at me? None of that makes sense.
I swing my legs off the narrow bed, feet hitting cold stone. My hands are shaking. My entire body feels too warm, too aware, like the dream left physical residue I can't shake off.
The smooth black stone sits on my small side table. I pick it up without thinking, let it settle into my palm where it fits perfectly. The weight grounds me slightly, gives me something solid to focus on besides the confused tangle of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
I don't understand this. Don't understand the gaps in my memory that suddenly feel less like illness or accident and more like something was deliberately removed. Don't understand why my body responds to Malrec like it recognizes him when my conscious mind insists we're strangers.
The stone's surface is cool and smooth beneath my thumb as I trace circles across it. The motion is soothing in ways I can't articulate, like muscle memory taking over when conscious thought becomes too difficult.
I need to move. Need to do something besides sit here spiraling.
I dress quickly in the pre-dawn darkness, pulling on work garments with mechanical efficiency.
My hair gets tied back roughly, several strands escaping immediately but I don't bother fixing them.
I just need to be somewhere else. Somewhere that isn't these small quarters where the remnants of the dream still cling to the air.
The corridors are empty this early. Most of the other servants won't be up for at least another hour, and the main estate above remains quiet. I move through the passages toward the stables without really deciding to go there, just following instinct that pulls me in that direction.
The stable entrance looms ahead, and I hesitate at the threshold.
The air shifts here—warmer, heavier, carrying traces of sulfur and that faint metallic scent that pervades everything.
The distant sounds of the beasts settling reach me even from outside.
Low growls. The scrape of claws or scales against stone.
The occasional resonance of magic from containment fields adjusting to movement.
I step inside.
The walkways are dim, lit only by the faint glow of rune-sconces that never fully go dark. My footsteps echo softly as I make my way deeper, past Vexris's enclosure where she's curled in the back corner, past Khorvas who lifts his head to track my movement but doesn't react otherwise.
Azhrael's enclosure pulls me like gravity.
He's awake—probably never truly sleeps given what he is—and his luminous eyes fix on me immediately when I approach the barrier. No aggression in his posture. No territorial warning. Just that same watchful awareness he always shows me.
I stop at the edge of his containment field, close enough to see him clearly but not breaching the barrier. "Hey, beautiful," I whisper, and my voice cracks slightly on the words.
He moves closer. That massive form shifting through shadow and volcanic heat until he's right at the boundary, separated from me by only the shimmering ward.
In the dream, I was petting him. Cooing at him with casual affection while he leaned into my touch like we'd done it countless times. And he'd responded not with genuine contentment. Like he has since I got here.
"Do I know you?" I ask quietly. "Did I?"
Azhrael tilts his head, and the movement feels almost like response. Like he understands the question even if he can't answer it.
The dream sits heavy in my chest. The way Malrec looked at me. The way he touched me. The absolute familiarity between us that suggested history, intimacy, something real that existed beyond imagination.
"I'm losing my mind," I murmur, more to myself than the beast. "Having dreams that feel like memories about a man who barely tolerates me. Knowing how to bridle you when I've never been trained. Reacting to his voice like my body recognizes something my brain doesn't."
Azhrael makes a low sound—not quite a purr, but softer than his usual growls. Almost sympathetic, if that's possible from a creature like him.
I rest my forehead against the barrier, feeling the subtle resistance of the ward against my skin. The magic tingles slightly but doesn't push me away. "What happened to me? What am I forgetting?"
No answer. Just the steady presence of the beast on the other side of the containment field, watching me with those too-aware eyes.
I don't know how long I stand there. Long enough that the rune-sconces begin brightening slightly as dawn approaches outside.
Long enough that my breathing steadies and the panic from waking fades into something duller.
Long enough that when I hear footsteps approaching down the main walkway, I'm not surprised.
Malrec.
I recognize his gait before I turn. The measured pace. The weight of his steps. The way the air seems to shift slightly when he moves through it, carrying traces of his power even when he's not actively using magic.
I straighten, pulling away from the barrier, and force my expression into something neutral. Professional. Like I wasn't just having a breakdown in front of his most dangerous beast.
He stops several feet away, and I finally make myself look at him.
No anger in his face. No irritation at finding me here early and unassigned. Just... observation. Those ember-gold eyes taking me in with the same careful attention he gives the beasts, cataloging details I probably don't want him to notice.
In the dream, those eyes crinkled with laughter. With warmth. With affection so clear it made my chest ache.
Now they're just watchful. Assessing.
"Lenna."
My name in his voice triggers the now-familiar flutter of something I don't want to examine. Not fear. Not quite attraction. Something in between that makes my breath catch despite my best efforts.
I wait. He's clearly here for a reason, and I'm not going to be the one to break the silence.
Malrec's gaze flicks to Azhrael, then back to me. "Would you mind bridling him? He needs to go out to the pasture for a bit."
I try to rope in my surprise. I try to remember that my dream was just that — a dream. Malrec does not treat me like he knows me, like I know his beast or that I would be one he'd be unwilling to share.
I need to remember that.