4. Yield #2
She had lost weight. Her athletic frame was too thin, and it made him furious with himself.
The gown she wore didn't fit. It wasn't hers because it belonged to Surian, not made for her body, not made for his Allora.
The gown hung too long and sheer for his liking, not nearly enough for someone who deserved nothing but the best. She needed tailored clothing, fabrics that held her fire instead of cloaking it.
"If you eat dinner," he murmured finally, brushing a knuckle gently across her cheek to tuck away a stubborn curl, "a full one, with real food, and if you feel stronger tomorrow, we'll go into the city. I'll have your clothes made. And then we'll talk about it. About staying."
Her expression softened, hope flickering across her face. A gleam lit her face, and then there it was: her smile. The one he'd been aching to see for nearly a week. Soft, warm, a little cheeky. Just for him.
"You promise you'll think about it?" she asked, her voice cautious but laced with hope.
He reached out again to touch her forehead, checking for fever.
"Yes," he murmured. "I promise I will consider it. Now go eat, liri. You probably fainted from lack of nutrients. And no sweets," he added with a half-smile. "Only vegetables and meats. I'll join you in a minute."
She nodded and turned to look at Erolyn and Surian, her expression soft and hopeful.
The maid who'd been watching her stepped forward to escort her to the kitchen.
And Malec stood still for a beat longer, watching her go, a feeling cracking open in him he wasn't equipped to examine.
Love, or the desperate need to keep her smiling. He wasn't sure there was a difference.
Whatever it was, it was his. And he wasn't going to let anyone else have it.
As Allora disappeared down the corridor with the maid, swaddled in the soft throw he had draped over her like armor, the tension in the room did not ease.
It shifted. Malec stood rooted to the spot, arms folded, a storm brewing behind his desert-toned eyes.
Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. Deeply wrong.
He could feel it through the soul-tether, a strange link between them that Malec was more aware of than she was, and he was glad of it. It gave him insight into her health and whereabouts that he needed to keep her safe.
Behind him, Erolyn leaned against the mantle, folding his arms with a smug grin. "So that's the secret to swaying the great Commander Malec Talandros?" he drawled. "A pair of googly eyes and a pouty mouth?"
He made a kissy face that would've earned him a broken jaw from anyone else.
Surian nearly choked on her wine. "Saints, don't give her ideas," she said with a snort. "If that's all it takes, we've been wasting our breath for years."
Malec didn't even blink. He let their jabs hang in the air, unbothered, his eyes still on the space where Allora had stood moments ago, barefoot and trembling, far too thin beneath that gauzy nightgown not meant for her. She had smiled at him, sweet and soft, and it had nearly undone him.
He finally turned to Surian, his voice low but heavy with command. "Summon Luko."
Surian arched a brow. "That serious?"
"I don't want palace physicians near her," he said. "No court medics. No curious apprentices eager to prod her for sport. I want someone who actually knows what they're doing, someone I trust."
Surian sobered at once. "Understood. I'll send my fastest courier. It'll be marked urgent."
Malec exhaled slowly. A flicker of gratitude passed through him, but it vanished beneath the rising weight in his chest. He had given her space, thinking it was what she needed. Now, seeing how unwell she truly was, he hated himself for it.
Allora sat hunched over the long mahogany kitchen table, the oversized blanket still wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
The nightgown she wore, thin and gauzy and clearly not her own, clung to her damp skin as she cradled a bowl of steaming broth between her hands.
Surian's servants bustled quietly in the background, respectful but watchful, setting down platters of steamed vegetables, dark grain breads, sweetroot juices, and hearty soups.
All of it had been ordered by him. The silver haired warlord.
She stirred her spoon lazily through the broth, watching wisps of steam curl up and vanish like ghosts.
Her body still trembled from earlier, a fatigue she couldn't shake, but her mind had cleared enough to think.
And think she did. Her eyes flicked up now and then to the doorway, half-expecting him to enter.
He had promised he would come. And for once, she believed him.
But belief wasn't security.
The truth nestled like a weight behind her sternum.
She knew Malec well enough by now. His protectiveness could be a gilded cage.
He had already said it—he wanted to take her back.
Back to that frozen prison in the North, that endless white silence where she would be cloistered from the world, dressed like a doll and watched like a hawk.
He'd justify it with safety and health, but what he really wanted was control.
To keep her somewhere only he could reach.
She picked up a slice of buttered tuber-bread and took a bite, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.
He hadn't been cruel tonight. In fact, he had been tender.
His touch had been gentle when he brushed her cheek.
That look in his eyes, the slight tremble of his voice—it hadn't been the cold Commander. It had been Malec.
Her Malec. And that mattered. Because it meant he still loved her.
And if he loved her, she could use that.
Her eyes narrowed as the beginnings of a plan took shape.
He wanted to protect her? Fine. Let him feel what it would cost to cage the storm he claimed to love. If she was going back to that frozen hell, she'd make damn sure he regretted it every step of the way. Or better yet, she'd give him a reason not to go at all.
There were two ways to win with Malec: war or seduction.
Tonight, she didn't have the strength for war.
But she still had her body, her lips, her eyes.
And if she timed it right, if she reminded him of everything he stood to lose, maybe he'd choose to keep her right here.
In the Capitol. Close to information and resources she needed to make her next move.
And to hopefully, although this was a stretch, acquire allies to aid her.
She picked up the last of her soup, sipping slowly now with intent. Her eyes glinted with hidden knowledge.
He wouldn't see it coming.
Malec arrived just as she was finishing the last of her soup.
The servants had cleared away the dishes, and Allora was dabbing at her mouth with a linen cloth when he appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
She saw the crease between his brows, the tension in his shoulders.
This wasn’t the hard fury of earlier but a quieter, more contained tension. He was afraid.
He approached, his fingers still ink-stained from the letter he'd just written.
A courier had already been dispatched to summon Luko.
Two days, maybe three. That should've calmed his nerves, but it hadn't.
The longer he stayed in this damn Capitol, the more he felt eyes on her.
And now, Surion had seen her weakness, her illness, and worse, the way Malec looked at her.
That terrified him more than he would ever admit.
She had become the one thing in this world he could not protect with blade or strategy. He needed to take her back to the High North where she would be safe, where no one could use her against him—not the scheming court, not even her own reckless heart.
But not yet.
Let her have her hope, he thought. He would allow her to believe she had a say, for now. He'd wait a few more days. Then he'd tell her. And that is when he'd make her understand.
What he didn't know, what he hadn't yet even begun to consider, was that Allora had already seen this play unfolding. And she had no plans to go quietly.
"I'm fine," she insisted when he approached her chair.
He ignored her, lifting her easily into his arms, blanket and all. She protested again, squirming a little, but he just gave her a quiet look, one she knew better than to challenge when he was like this, and carried her back to her room.
She hated how her heart betrayed her with every step he took. Hated the way her body melted into him, even as her mind rebelled. He laid her down gently on the bed and tucked the blanket around her with a care that suggested she mattered, and the way he handled her made her feel wanted.
She was just about to speak, to ask him to stay, to try and draw him in, to begin what she'd been planning, when the door opened and a maid entered.
Of course.
The maid, stout and stone-faced, shuffled in and took a seat by the hearth without a word. Malec turned to her. "Do not sleep. Watch her. Notify me the moment she wakes."
The maid bowed her head in silent agreement. A sentinel in skirts. Allora's mouth twitched as she watched her sit. She could already tell this one wasn't going to nod off easy. Big Bertha over there looked like she bench-pressed oxen for breakfast. So much for seduction.
Malec leaned down and pressed his lips gently to her forehead. "Sleep," he murmured, voice low and steady. "I'll see you in the morning."
And then he was gone.
Allora lay there in an abandoned hush for a while, staring up at the ceiling as the fire popped softly in the grate. Her mind was racing, calculating. If he thought she would let him ship her back to that frozen prison, he had another thing coming. She needed to act fast.
Eventually, the soft creak of the chair and the steady rise and fall of heavy breathing told her what she needed to know.
The maid was out cold. Allora smiled to herself in the dark. Time to move.