1. The Price of Her #3
Far down the palace halls, past sweeping Awyan arches and blue silk curtains that stirred in the morning draft, a warlord dragged himself back toward waking.
The architecture rose in elegant curves meant to inspire awe, but the vastness pressed against him instead.
Light pooled across polished stone, catching in his eyes.
Air moved through the chamber without relief.
Even the space felt invasive, as if the room itself were touching him.
His senses were no longer dulled from alcohol but honed and overstimulating.
Even at a distance, the palace felt loud without sound, heavy with presence and expectation.
Malec stirred with a groan, consciousness clawing its way back through him. Every muscle protested. His neck refused to turn at first, his shoulders locked tight, the remnants of sleep settling over him with the weight of a battlefield hangover.
Heat smothered him beneath the armor, sweat crawling along his spine.
The sensation crawled over his skin, suffocating rather than warming, as though his body were wrapped too tightly in itself.
Each breath felt shallow, the air thick in his lungs.
He shifted with a low sound of irritation, fingers fumbling at the clasps across his chest, already overstimulated by the drag of fabric and the press of metal.
Why in the hells am I still wearing this?
His vision swam as he lifted his gaze to the unfamiliar canopy above, its silver threads drawn tight in quiet formality.
Then came the sound. Not gentle breath, but a coarse, rattling snore that dragged through the soft quiet.
Someone lay beside him, close enough for the noise to grate, loud and unashamed in its claim to the room.
He froze.
Adrenaline cut through the fog as Malec forced himself upright, pain flaring through his ribs as he twisted toward the sound, body bracing for violence before his thoughts caught up.
Instead of a threat, he found his cousin, Surion, sprawled beside him, half-slid off the mattress, snoring with unearned peace.
Malec stared.
What in the name of the gods’…?
Memory returned all at once, thick and disorienting.
He remembered the drinking first, then the firelight reflecting in crystal, the argument turning on itself until it became a different beast entirely.
He remembered collapsing into the King’s bed, words thrown with more venom than intention, and the sound of his own laughter, hollow even as it left him.
He dragged a hand down his face, breath shuddering as the pieces aligned.
This was not her bed. Relief rippled through him and vanished just as quickly, drowned by the pounding behind his eyes and the heat still crawling beneath his skin.
He rose too fast, stumbled over Surion’s legs, and barely caught himself at the edge of the mattress before the hangover struck in earnest. He dropped back down with a hiss, fingers pressing hard into his temples.
With a hostile tug, he tore the chest armor free and let it fall. Leather scraped against bruised skin, raising red welts along his ribs and collarbone. He noticed distantly, filed the sensation away without care. Pain was simple. Pain was manageable.
The tunic followed, dragged over his head and discarded. Heat rolled off him in waves now, unchecked. His long silver hair clung to his damp back, every strand another point of irritation he could not escape.
Her.
The moment the armor left his body, the soulbinding surged beneath his skin, insistent and merciless.
His blood pulsed with it, every nerve attuned to absence.
The lack of her pressed harder than the heat, a hollow ache that left him restless and unmoored.
He leaned back, eyes closing as sweat traced slow paths down his chest. The dream returned unbidden, as it always did.
Not softened by sleep or dulled by distance.
The memory of her moved through him with unsettling clarity.
He could still feel the weight of her hands against his chest, the heat of her mouth grazing his throat, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms.
When she spoke his name, it carried fury threaded with worse: the raw edge of need. He tensed, his body responding before his mind could stop it.
It was not an actual dream but the bond pressing insistently through him, pulling his body toward hers with a force that was both physical and undeniable.
The sensation carried pain and heat together, keen enough to overwhelm his discipline and leave him unsteady in his own skin.
For most of his life he had kept sensation contained, emotion rationed, desire buried beneath control, but this tore straight through those barriers and left him exposed to it all at once.
Hunger lived in it. Not just desire.
He looked down at himself, flushed and aching, arousal heavy and insistent. There was no shame in it, only longing so deep it felt structural.
Gods above, he thought, breath uneven. I haven’t felt this since childhood. No. Not even then.
She had awakened an ancient, volatile hunger in him, an ache that blurred the line between devotion and ruin. The thought of her skin was enough to unravel his control. He folded forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands covering his face as the conflict tore through him.
I miss her.
A broken sound slipped from him, almost a laugh.
“This will end me,” he murmured into the empty chamber.
And yet…
He thought of her smile—fierce and fleeting. Of the glint in her eye when she challenged him. Of the way her body bent into his, furious and sweet and all-consuming.
She is chaos, he thought, lips curving despite himself. And she makes me want to live.
Even if she never forgave him, if she never touched him again. He would burn the world to keep her alive inside it. And he would do it smiling.
The royal bathhouse lay steeped in steam and quiet, marble columns softened by mist, still water reflecting the pale glow of the sunlit dome above.
It was a place reserved for blood and lineage, for those whose presence required no permission.
No one questioned Malec’s right to be here. Nor would they dare.
He lowered himself deeper into the water, letting it climb over bruised ribs and battered muscle. The ache in his body came from more than exertion, and the strain in his mind from more than lack of sleep. The warmth should have eased it.
It did not.
The bond did not murmur or coax. It pressed and demanded. Constantly.
A low sound slipped from his throat as he leaned back, platinum hair spreading across the water’s surface.
The heat closed around him, and still his body betrayed him, responding to absence as if it were a wound.
There was no forgetting her, not even for a moment.
He didn’t know whether the hunger was rooted in flesh or spirit.
The distinction no longer mattered. What remained was need, acute enough to rival pain.
He let out a slow breath and dragged a hand over his face, water trailing from his fingers. Perhaps the bath would help. Perhaps stillness would dull the edge if he gave it time.
Voices cut through the quiet.
He did not open his eyes nor did he need to. The doors swung wide, the sound of movement echoing across tile.
Surion entered first, wrapped in embroidered silk, the gleam of his circlet catching the mist like a challenge.
Behind him came Surin Talandros, Malec’s father, speaking as though the bathhouse were an extension of court.
Trade routes, negotiations, the endless performance of diplomacy, delivered with infuriating calm.
Malec remained where he was. He did not greet them, only allowed their presence to settle, and the silence to stretch until it pressed back.
“Why are you disturbing my peace?” he asked at last, his voice cutting cleanly through the steam.
Surin smiled, unbothered. “Peace?” He eased himself into the water with visible satisfaction. “I came to ensure my daughter-in-law still draws breath. One never knows with you.”
Malec went still.
The words struck deeper than Surin likely intended.
Daughter-in-law. Malec hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear it until it was already out. The title carried weight, far different from the language of possession or politics that had defined her place until now. It settled into him with quiet permanence, merging with a claim he had already made in his own mind. But now it was made real coming from his father’s own lips.
Allora. His Vash’telor. His wife by ancient Awyan law.
A faint smile curved his mouth as he leaned back again, bruises hidden beneath water and steam.
The tension in his shoulders loosened for the first time in days.
He pictured her in his colors, silver and black, a fox stitched at her shoulder.
His name following hers, visible and undeniable.
No questions. No escape. A bond acknowledged and enforced by the world.
Surion’s voice broke through the moment. “What are you smiling at?”
Malec turned his head slowly. “Nothing,” he said evenly.
Surin raised a brow. “That expression suggests otherwise.”
Malec did not answer. He shifted slightly, letting the water ripple around him, his posture deliberately relaxed. Whatever they thought they had glimpsed, he did not correct them.
After a long pause, Malec spoke again. "Father," he said, "have you ever soulbound?"
Surin's expression hardened, cold flickering behind his eyes. "No," he said flatly. "Thank the stars."
Malec looked at him sidelong. "You've read about it, though."
"I've done more than read about it." Surin's voice carried an edge almost offended by the question. "I've seen what it does. Watched it consume someone from the inside out until there was nothing left but the bond and the obsession feeding it."
A pause. His jaw worked once before he continued.