5. Boundaries and Bargains #8
But Allora was already rising. Slowly. Every motion radiated purpose. Gone was the casual slouch, the half-mocking grin. What replaced it was even darker, colder, an expression that stilled every Awyan in the chamber.
"You can insult me all you want," she said, her voice pitched quiet but carrying through the hush. Each word dropped like a stone into the tension-drenched air. "Call me names. Mock me. Spread your little stories."
Another step. The gown whispered against her legs.
"But you do not, ever, speak about Surian. Not in front of me."
Kirelle's mouth hung open, but no sound came. Her fingers trembled against her sticky skin as she swiped at the juice trickling over her lashes, smearing purple streaks across her perfect face.
No one else dared move. The other Awyan noblewomen sat frozen as statues. The seamstress hovered near the doorway, clutching her measuring tape like a lifeline.
Allora's gaze didn't waver. It was the look of someone who had already burned every bridge she'd ever crossed and was perfectly willing to set the whole kingdom ablaze to protect what she cared about.
Stillness reigned, until a single, wet drip of juice slid off Kirelle's chin and struck the polished floor with a delicate patter.
Malec sat in the courtyard, one leg draped casually over the other, a portrait of measured elegance and iron composure.
To any passerby, he looked the very image of Awyan nobility: cool, unshakable, as if nothing in this realm could stir him.
But beneath the polished exterior, his mind was a tempest. He was restless.
Coiled. Half a breath from rising and storming into that dressing room just to see her, to stand near her and be close enough to watch the flare of that wicked, incendiary spirit.
He could almost picture it: Allora, glaring down her nose at an Awyan who deserved it, her tongue the most dangerous thing in the room. The image alone made his chest flutter, the heat of it simmering under his ribs.
The fountain whispered behind him, birds bright in the branches above. He despised the calm, how distant it felt from her chaos.
"Commander."
He didn't sigh, but it was close. Malec tilted his head just enough to acknowledge the voice.
Striding up with all the smug ease of a cat who knew he was pretty came Dariose, son of a merchant lord whose fortune was eclipsed only by his ego.
His pale gold hair gleamed in the sunlight, styled into an elaborate twist Malec found vaguely offensive.
Dariose was also Lady Kirelle's half brother, though the resemblance ended at their shared shade of superior arrogance.
Dariose flashed a grin as he settled into the chair beside him, uninvited.
"What brings the great Silver Fox to a place like this?" He flicked a look toward the tailor's gilded doors. "Surely you're not shopping for yourself. Or perhaps it has something to do with Lady Surian?"
His tone was light, ingratiating, the kind of careful flattery that made Malec's teeth ache.
Malec turned his head slowly, giving him the sort of stare that made hardened generals reconsider their life choices. "Stop pretending you haven't heard the rumors," he said, his voice like frost on glass.
Dariose laughed, too brightly. "I suppose it would be foolish to think I could keep anything from you, Commander. Your intelligence network is legendary, after all."
The compliment hung in the air like bait.
"Yes," Malec agreed flatly, refusing to take it.
A faint flush rose on Dariose's fair cheeks, but he pressed on, determined to pretend they were equals. "I admit, I was curious. About her. The Canariae. I didn't believe half the stories until I saw you out here, looking like the most overdressed guard in the empire."
Malec's eyes narrowed. A muscle jumped in his neck. But his voice stayed measured, dangerously quiet. "They're all true. Every single one."
Dariose's breath caught. "So you really are keeping her?"
Malec didn't answer. He didn't need to. His gaze slid down Dariose's fine, jewel-toned coat with faint disdain. "What are you doing in a female's tailor shop?"
Dariose smirked, unbothered by the implicit dismissal.
"I came to escort my sister." He gestured vaguely, as though it was hardly worth explaining.
"Lady Kirelle needed adjustments to her wedding season gowns.
" His eyes glinted with sly amusement. "But I thought I'd stay and see if the infamous Canariae made an appearance.
You know how it is, Commander. Curiosity and all that. "
Malec said nothing. He simply looked at Dariose with the kind of patience reserved for insects that hadn't yet realized they were about to be crushed.
Dariose cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "I've heard she's quite spirited. A challenge, I imagine, for even someone of your... considerable talents."
Another attempt at flattery. Another transparent bid for camaraderie.
Malec's expression didn't change. "Is there a reason you're still here?"
The words were polite. The tone was not.
Dariose's smile faltered just slightly. "I simply thought we might share a drink while we wait. Perhaps discuss the upcoming council session? I know my father would be most interested in your thoughts on the trade negotiations?—"
"No."
The single word landed with the finality of a door slamming shut.
Dariose blinked. "I... of course. I didn't mean to presume?—"
Malec never got the retort out. A shriek ripped through the building, high, livid and very feminine. And then a crash, a clatter of whatever had followed it, and a curse delivered with such concentrated venom it raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Malec was on his feet before Dariose had time to blink.
"Shit," Dariose muttered, scrambling after him.
Malec stormed through the tailor's foyer in a blur of pale hair and steel-edged purpose, boot heels striking marble with the finality of a war drum. Servants dove out of his path, faces blanching as he passed. Dariose stumbled behind, trying to keep up.
He threw open the dressing room doors, ready to draw blood, ready to end whoever dared touch her.
And froze.
Instead, Allora stood on a velvet chair, one boot propped on the armrest like a conquering general, hair tumbling wild around her shoulders.
Her dark skin glowed against the pale silk gown that had slipped off one shoulder.
Her chin lifted, her mouth curved in a smirk that promised holy retribution.
Lady Kirelle, poor unfortunate Lady Kirelle, stood several paces away, her delicate face dripping with vivid purple juice and shock. The sticky splatter still gleamed between her brows, running in rivulets down her patrician nose.
Surian was off to the side, hands pressed over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. A dressing screen lay toppled behind them. A platter of sugared fruits had been sacrificed to the chaos.
Malec's hand slid slowly from the hilt of his sword.
Of course. Of course she'd started a riot with fruit.
He took a breath, exhaling in a long, measured sigh that did absolutely nothing to cool the fierce, ridiculous affection rising in his chest. A muscle in his jaw tensed as he fought the smile threatening to break free.
By all that was sacred, he had never loved anyone more.
Malec strode through the wreckage of fruit and overturned cushions like an Awyan on a holy mission, his boots crunching over sugared grapes as if he didn't even see them.
All around him, the dressing room cowered in stunned silence.
Gilded screens lay toppled, fine velvet pillows were scattered like battlefield debris, and the noblewomen looked as though they'd just witnessed the gates of the underworld swing wide to swallow their genteel world whole.
Without breaking stride, he reached her.
He slid one arm around her waist, the other bracing her thigh just below her hip, and lifted her clean off the chair like she weighed no more than a silken scarf.
She went rigid in his hold but didn't fight him—too busy staring daggers over his shoulder at Lady Kirelle, who looked as though she were seconds from fainting.
Malec turned Allora in his arms, chest to chest, holding her snug against him. His expression was stern, but the way his mouth threatened to curve gave him away. His eyes were bright, dancing dangerously close to amusement.
"Behave," he murmured, his deep voice pitched just for her. "You're making me look bad."
Allora didn't answer. She didn't even glance at him.
She simply continued her silent, murderous vigil over his shoulder, her glare locked on Lady Kirelle as though daring her to open her mouth again.
Malec's jaw muscle jumped again as he fought not to laugh.
She was like a tiny chihuahua that had just mauled a duchess.
Deadly, ridiculous, and somehow endearing all at once.
"Commander!" Kirelle's voice cracked with indignation. "Your Canariae attacked me! She threw fruit at my face! This is unacceptable! I demand?—"
Slowly, he pivoted to face the trembling noblewoman still dabbing at the sticky purple juice splattered between her eyes. He adjusted his grip on Allora, holding her as if she were a priceless, if somewhat violent, bouquet.
"Lady Kirelle," he said evenly, his voice so calm it sent a ripple of dread through the room. "Would you mind telling me what, precisely, you did to upset my canariae?"
Kirelle stiffened. Her cheeks mottled a splotchy pink. "Commander—I—I did nothing—I swear, she?—"
"What," he repeated, each word carved from ice, "did you say to upset my Canariae?"
"And to Surian," Allora added from her perch, her voice sharp and unapologetic.
Malec's eyes flicked to his sister. Surian gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. The tension in his shoulders shifted as irritation hardened into cold resolve.
He turned back to Kirelle. "I'm waiting."