9. Lenna #2
My body responds with immediate, visceral want. Want to say yes. Want to be near him for three days away from the stables and the watchful presence of other staff. Want to see what happens when the careful distance we maintain here doesn't have the same structural support.
That longing has been building for days. Since the binding ritual. Since the dreams became too frequent to dismiss. Since I started noticing the way he moves through the space—controlled and precise and devastatingly attractive in ways I can't afford to acknowledge.
"I've never been to an auction," I say carefully. Though, for some reason, it doesn't feel quite right.
"I'm aware."
"I don't know the protocols. The expectations for behavior or—"
"You'll follow my lead." He shifts his weight, and I track the movement without meaning to.
Watch the way his shoulders adjust, the way his hands remain carefully at his sides like he's restraining something.
"The event takes place at a neutral territory estate.
Accommodations will be provided. You'll attend as part of my staff. "
Part of his staff. Not as anything else. Not as someone he—
I cut that thought off before it can complete. This is professional. A practical decision based on beast handling logistics. Nothing more.
So why does it feel like everything?
"Alright," I hear myself say. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow morning. Before dawn." Something flickers in his eyes—relief? satisfaction?—before his expression settles back into neutrality. "Pack light. One bag. We'll be traveling by carriage with Khorvas in a transport cage."
I nod, my mind already racing through implications I shouldn't be considering. It's just one night. I'm used to being around him every day, anyway. But it does mean being away from the stables and the rigid structure that keeps our interactions controlled and minimal.
My heart pounds against my ribs, and I have to consciously steady my breathing before speaking again. "Is there anything specific I should prepare?"
"Standard work garments are fine. The event is functional, not social." He finally moves, stepping toward the barrier with deliberate purpose. "I'll brief you on Khorvas's transport requirements tonight. Meet me in the main stable office after evening feeding."
He's leaving now. Creating distance again before whatever is building between us can become something neither of us can ignore.
And I let him go because I'm not sure what to make of it.
The carriage ride takes most of the morning, and I spend it pressed against the far wall, watching volcanic terrain give way to something softer. Less hostile. The transition feels wrong, like we're moving backward into memory rather than forward into new territory.
Malrec sits across from me, his attention fixed on documentation spread across his lap. He hasn't looked at me directly since we loaded Khorvas into the transport cage attached behind the carriage. Just occasional glances that feel more like surveillance than acknowledgment.
Damiros arrived at the estate right as we were departing, apparently joining us for the auction.
I wasn't expecting that. The older Virex brother settled into the seat beside Malrec with easy familiarity, greeting me with polite neutrality that somehow felt more unsettling than outright hostility would have.
Now he watches me. Not constantly, but frequently enough that I feel it.
His sharp green-gold eyes track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
There's something in his expression I can't identify—something that looks almost like concern mixed with calculation mixed with something heavier that I don't have a name for.
I don't like it.
I shift my attention out the window, focusing on the landscape instead of the weight of two demon gazes that feel like they're trying to read something written on my skin.
"How is Azhrael adjusting?" Damiros asks, his voice carrying that same polished neutrality. "I understand you've been working with him regularly."
I glance at him, unsure how to navigate this conversation. "He's calmer. More responsive to routine."
"Responsive to you, specifically." It's not a question. Damiros leans back slightly, his posture relaxed in a way that contrasts with the sharpness of his attention. "That's unusual for a beast of his classification."
My jaw tightens. I don't know what game we're playing here, but I can feel the undercurrents running beneath his words. "I treat him with respect. Consistency. Most beasts respond well to that."
"Most beasts, yes." Damiros's gaze flickers to Malrec briefly before returning to me. "Azhrael is not most beasts."
Malrec makes a low sound that might be agreement or warning. I can't tell which. His attention remains fixed on his documentation, but his shoulders have gone tighter, his posture more rigid.
The air in the carriage feels thick. Charged with something I don't understand but can feel pressing against my chest.
I return my attention to the window and keep it there.
The estate emerges from the landscape like something grown rather than built.
Stone and iron rising in careful tiers, surrounded by reinforced enclosures that ripple with containment magic I can sense even from a distance.
It's massive, clearly designed to house multiple beast collections during auction events.
And it feels familiar.
Not in the way Malrec's voice sometimes feels familiar, or the way certain moments with Azhrael trigger recognition I can't explain. This is different. More physical. Like my body knows this place even though my mind insists I've never seen it before.
My chest tightens as we approach, and I press my hand against the window frame to steady myself.
"You've been here before," Damiros says quietly.
I snap my attention to him, my heart suddenly beating too fast. "No. I haven't."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something that looks almost like pity. "My mistake."
It doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels deliberate. Like he's testing something, cataloging my responses for reasons I can't determine.
Malrec's gaze lifts from his documentation, finding mine for the first time since we departed. That ember-gold burns through me, and I see the question there. The same confusion I'm feeling reflected back at me.
Then he looks away, and I'm left with the disorienting certainty that something is very wrong here. That all of this—the familiarity, the recognition, the way my body responds to him—isn't random or explainable by dreams alone.
The carriage stops, and I force myself to breathe normally as we disembark.
Luckily, getting Khorvas out of his transport cage requires all my focus, which is a relief.
The male beast is agitated from travel, and I have to move carefully to avoid triggering a defensive response.
I speak to him in low tones, my hands steady as I guide him through the transition from confined space to the display stall that's been prepared.
Malrec works beside me, our movements falling into rhythm without discussion. He handles the containment anchors while I manage Khorvas's physical positioning, both of us operating with practiced efficiency that feels too natural. Like we've done this together hundreds of times before.
Which is impossible, because I've only been at House Virex for weeks.
But my body doesn't care about logic. It just knows that this is right. That working beside him like this, in perfect synchronization, is exactly how it should be.
Khorvas settles once we've secured him properly, and I run my hand along his scaled flank in reassurance. The beast presses into my touch, and I feel some of the tension leave my own shoulders in response.
"Well done," Malrec says quietly.
I glance at him, caught off guard by the approval in his tone. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—something softer than his usual controlled assessment, but still guarded. Still careful.
"He trusts you," I say, because I need to fill the silence with something other than the way my pulse is racing.
"He trusts us both." Malrec's jaw tightens slightly. "That pairing has always been his preference."
The word choice hits me strangely. Pairing. Like Khorvas sees us as a unit rather than separate handlers. Like that's normal and expected rather than deeply confusing.
Before I can respond, Damiros appears at the stall entrance. "The viewing begins shortly. We should survey the available stock."
Malrec nods once, then gestures for me to follow.
The auction estate's beast viewing area is enormous—a series of interconnected enclosures arranged in deliberate progression from smallest to largest classifications.
We move through them methodically, Malrec assessing each creature with professional detachment while Damiros offers occasional commentary on lineage or acquisition history.
I trail behind them, my attention divided between the beasts and the growing disorientation building in my chest.