5. Boundaries and Bargains #2
"Since you're the one delivering it." His smile turned softer, more genuine. "I'd rather lose to you every day for the rest of my life than win without you in it."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She wanted to snap back, to wound him the way he was wounding her with this relentless, unwavering affection. But her throat had gone tight. She scrambled off the bed, cheeks burning, heart slamming in her ribs.
Behind her, Malec watched her go with that infuriating gleam in his eyes, his body relaxed and warm from sleep. It was the look of a male who knew she'd come back. He'd seen the way she looked at him in the dark.
And that was the cruelest part. He was right.
An hour later, Allora stalked across the grass like a storm on two legs, her scowl fierce enough to send the gardeners scuttling out of her path.
She'd bathed, dressed in one of Surian's borrowed gowns (a lavender linen with sleeves that hung almost to her knees, the hem puddling around her ankles because Surian's clothes were all made for someone taller), and had her hair done by servants who'd worked in careful hush.
She'd only managed to fit into it because she'd lost so much weight in the past month, but even that was changing.
Already, the fabric was pulling a little more snugly over her hips.
The morning sun caught the edges of the gown as she approached the breakfast gazebo, her mood darker than the bright weather warranted.
Surian watched from the shade, her pale blue eyes crinkling with quiet amusement.
She's eating again, she thought, feeling a warmth settle in her chest. Good.
But even that satisfaction was tinged with concern.
Because she knew that sooner or later, Malec would try to drag Allora north again, away from all this.
Erolyn, slumped in a wicker chair and yawning into his palm, spotted Allora first. A slow grin curled across his mouth, pure mischief, though his chest tightened when he saw her. He forced the feeling down.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he drawled, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Sleep well?”
Allora glared at him, her steps never slowing. She knew that look in his eyes, that sparkle that meant he'd heard everything. Her face heated, and she threw him a look violent enough to peel paint. "Erolyn," she warned, her voice dangerously soft, "you got something to say?"
He lifted both hands in surrender, his bracelets jingling. "Not a word," he said with exaggerated innocence. Then he added, deadpan, "Except maybe bravo. Impressive volume control. Next time, try to keep it down. The servants are traumatized."
The words came out lighter than he felt. Hearing her last night through the villa walls had left a sour knot in his gut, one he refused to name.
Surian snorted into her teacup, her pale blue eyes dancing with affection. She looked at Allora with the fondness of an older sister watching a younger one throw a tantrum. "Behave, Erolyn."
Allora planted herself in the empty chair across from them, folding her arms tight. "Surian," she announced, "I want you to bar Malec from this estate. Permanently."
The silence that followed was deafening. Erolyn and Surian exchanged a look, then turned to her in unison, wearing the same bland, pointed expression that said do you hear yourself right now?
Before either could reply, a smooth voice behind her made her spine lock up.
"What was that, my love?"
Allora's stomach dropped. She turned her head slowly and there he was, standing on the flagstones as though he'd been summoned by her very irritation.
Malec, in a crisp black tunic with sleeves rolled to his forearms, silver hair still damp and swept back.
A steaming cup rested in his hand. But it was his expression that made her want to scream: soft, relaxed, utterly content.
Like he'd just woken up from the best sleep of his life and the world had finally aligned in his favor.
"You're asking to start a war?" he asked, amusement threading through his voice.
She threw her arms up in exasperation. "Why can't you stay away for ten minutes? You're like an infection that keeps flaring up!"
Malec tilted his head, one pale brow lifting. "An infection am I?”
"Yes!" Allora snapped, her temper spilling over. "An infection that won't go away. Why don't you get a job?"
Erolyn made a strangled noise, then doubled over, wheezing. "You just told the commander of the High North Army, the Awyan who has personally prevented three wars this decade, to get a job?"
Malec looked far too pleased with himself, comfortable in a way that made it clear he believed he'd already won.
But he didn't so much as flinch. He just sipped his drink, as calm as a glacier.
"Mm," he hummed, sounding almost amused.
"Perhaps I'll see if the baker in town needs an apprentice.
I'm sure my reputation could use the humility. "
Allora glared at him, wishing she could wipe the satisfied look right off his face.
Malec took his time sitting, as if he were making a point simply by existing.
He set his steaming cup on the small table and then, with the unhurried confidence that only he could possess, drew Allora's chair closer to his.
His hand settled on her arm like it belonged there, thumb brushing slow circles against her sleeve.
The touch was possessive but gentle, the gesture of a male who'd finally gotten what he wanted and had no intention of letting it slip away.
Allora didn't bother to look at him. She just squinted at some invisible spot across the garden, her lips pressed into a line that fairly screamed see what I mean? I can't get away from this bastard if I tried.
Erolyn watched the casual intimacy, a tight pressure settling behind his ribs. He kept his expression light and teasing, but his fingers tightened around his teacup.
Surian, observing them both with sisterly delight, seemed determined to prevent the mood from devolving further. She cleared her throat delicately, then rested her elbows on the table, pale eyes flicking between them with forced nonchalance.
"Well," Surian began, her tone overly casual in a way that immediately made Allora suspicious, "I was thinking...
Allora's been here some time now. If she's to stay, she really does need proper garments.
Fitted things. You look regal, yes, but also as though you're wearing my old gowns as a child might wear a curtain.
" She gestured vaguely at the loose fabric pooled around Allora's waist. "Your frame is different than mine.
More generous in some places, narrower in others. "
She said it with such gentle concern, like a sibling fussing over a younger sibling's wardrobe.
Allora turned slowly, narrowing her gaze. "Are you fat-shaming me right now?"
Surian blinked. "Fat... shaming?"
Malec's lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile threatening to crack his composed fa?ade.
"It means," Allora snapped, "implying I'm too big for your precious clothes."
Surian lifted her hands, palms out in defense. "No, no, you misunderstand. My gowns were made for someone taller and flatter. It's not an insult, just an observation. You deserve clothes that fit your actual figure."
Malec’s amusement faded just a fraction, replaced by what looked suspiciously like guilt.
He studied Allora in the morning light, really studying her, taking in the way Surian's pale lilac gown hung off her narrow shoulders but pulled tight at the swell of her hips and the soft curves of her breasts.
He exhaled slowly. "You're right," he said, his voice low, more serious now. "I hadn't thought of it." His thumb paused in its idle caress on her arm. "I've been occupied."
Allora’s heart lurched in a way she refused to acknowledge.
But of course, he couldn’t leave it there. His mouth curved into a wicked smile, and he continued in that same infuriatingly thoughtful tone.
“Though I admit, I’m surprised you managed to fit into Surian’s gown at all, considering how generous your hips are.”
His eyes swept over her appreciatively. "I've never once managed to ignore your shape."
He said it with such open adoration, so utterly besotted, that even Erolyn had to look away.
Surian rolled her eyes and flicked her napkin at him. "Careful, brother. You're sounding like a pubescent boy bragging about his first conquest."
"Not bragging," Malec said, his hand sliding down to find Allora's under the table, fingers interlacing with hers. "Just appreciating."
Allora turned her glare from Surian to Malec, her expression promising that generous or not, she'd use those hips to kick him off the nearest balcony if he didn't stop smiling. And Malec, predictably, only smiled wider, leaning closer to her.
Allora sat up straighter, her spine stiff with pride, her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx in the morning light. She brushed an imaginary wrinkle from the oversized lavender gown and lifted her chin, determined to take back control of this entire farce.
"Oh, Surian," she began sweetly, voice dripping with false modesty, "you should know that your dear brother has reconsidered."
Surian lifted a delicate brow, already suspicious.
"Yes," Allora went on, her tone growing loftier with every word. "Malec has decided that I will be staying here. In the Capitol. For good."
She paused, savoring the hush that fell over the little breakfast table. Erolyn's brows shot up, disappearing beneath his tousled hair.
"And," Allora continued, pressing her advantage with all the satisfaction of a cat toying with a mouse, "he will be returning to his frozen wasteland alone. Which, frankly, suits him. Let him sulk up there in that glorified icebox where his frosty ass belongs."
Surian's eyes flicked from her to Malec, then back again. "For good?" she repeated carefully, as if testing the words on her tongue.