5. Boundaries and Bargains #9
Nobody moved. Kirelle looked around desperately for support, but the other noblewomen had already begun edging toward the exits. Not one of them would meet her eyes.
She was utterly alone.
"I... I apologize," she finally choked out, her voice thin. "I misspoke. I didn't mean?—"
"Leave," Malec said flatly.
Kirelle's face flushed scarlet with humiliation and rage. She whirled and fled, her silk skirts swirling around her ankles as she practically ran from the room.
Allora watched them go, her chin high, victorious. As the last Awyan female hurried through the doorway, she barked at her like a dog. The poor girl flinched and broke into a clumsy run, nearly tripping over her own hem.
Malec looked down at the small, furious bundle in his arms. He gave her a gentle shake, exasperated and enchanted all at once, as if she were a mischievous pup that had just shredded his favorite cloak.
"Will you ever stay out of trouble?" he asked, voice low, almost fond. But he was grinning, unable to hide the delight sparkling in his eyes.
She didn't reply, still too busy leering triumphantly at the empty doorway.
Malec let out a slow breath and smiled, deep and unrepentant. She was impossible, reckless, entirely ungovernable. She'd just humiliated one of the Capitol's most insufferable nobles with nothing but a grape and sheer audacity.
And stars help him, he loved her like this.
Meanwhile, out in the hallway, Dariose stood frozen, a hand still resting lightly on the carved banister. He had watched the entire spectacle unfold: the hurling of the fruit, the utter dismantling of his sister's pride, the Commander himself stepping in to collect his victorious little storm.
His sister, Lady Kirelle, had just been emotionally flayed by a Canariae. In public. Dariose blinked as she swept past, chin trembling, her dignity leaking behind her like spilled wine.
And then he grinned.
She'd be humiliated for weeks. And he would never let her live it down. What's more, Dariose finally understood why Malec looked so utterly addicted.
The Madam reappeared in the dressing room doorway, the skirts of her plum robes swaying, her eyes widening in horror at the wreckage before her. Overturned chairs, crushed sugared fruit glistening like tiny casualties, the syrupy smell of candied nectar clinging to the air like scandal itself.
"Ancestors preserve me," she gasped, pressing a hand to her throat. "What in the realm happened to my dressing suite?!"
Before any of the stunned noblewomen could open their mouths, Dariose stepped smoothly into the center of the chaos, his expression the picture of genteel concern.
"My sister," he said, voice laced with innocent gravity, "was starting arguments again, as always. Commander Malec's Canariae merely corrected her."
The Madam's gaze snapped to Malec, clearly torn between horror and calculation. Was this salvageable? Or was she witnessing the ruin of her reputation in real time?
But Malec didn't even register her presence. He was too busy grinning at the furious little storm wriggling in his arms, completely absorbed. Allora twisted and kicked, her hair a wild halo, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone.
"You," he murmured, laughter threading through his voice, "are absolutely reckless. Do you know that? You just assaulted a noblewoman with fruit."
"She deserved it," Allora hissed, shoving both hands hard against his chest. "Put me down."
"Not a chance." He tightened his hold, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "You've thoroughly embarrassed me, little dove. The entire Capitol will be talking about this by sunset.” His tone carried no reproach, only warm amusement and a fiercer edge beneath it. Pride.
"Good," she snapped. "And for fuck’s sake put me down?—"
"I rather like you here," he interrupted, his voice dropping lower, indulgent and warm. "You're very soft when you're furious."
She squirmed hard, twisting her hips to wrench free, but he only held her tighter, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. Gods, she was magnificent.
Watching her take down those preening, self-important nobles with nothing but her wit and a well-aimed projectile had been the highlight of his month.
Dariose cleared his throat, attempting to catch the Commander's attention. "Commander, if I may?—"
Malec didn't even glance his way. His entire focus remained locked on Allora, watching the way her eyes flashed with righteous fury, the way her cheeks glowed with the heat of battle.
Dariose tried again. "I wanted to apologize on behalf of?—"
"Mm," Malec hummed absently, still not looking at him. His thumb stroked Allora's hip through the fabric of her gown. "You threw fruit at her face. Actual fruit."
"Are you mad?" Allora demanded.
"Mad?" He finally met her gaze, his smile widening. "I'm in awe. That was the most elegant act of violence I've witnessed in years."
Her scowl faltered, confusion flickering across her features. "You're supposed to be angry."
"Oh, I am." But his eyes were dancing with barely suppressed laughter. "Furious. Absolutely livid, can't you tell?"
Surian, still standing near the toppled dressing screens, rubbed her temple with a look of exhausted disbelief. She looked like she was weighing the benefits of pretending she'd never met either of them.
Dariose, realizing he was being completely ignored, stepped lightly over a puddle of syrup and offered Surian his arm instead, his voice gentling. "Are you alright, Lady Surian?"
Surian blinked at him, startled by the courtesy. "I'm fine," she muttered, her voice brittle. "Traumatized, but fine."
Meanwhile, Allora's gaze flicked over Dariose with open suspicion. He was too smooth, too polite, too amused. She didn't trust anyone who could name-drop and grin in the same breath.
The Madam swallowed her dismay, pasting on a tight smile as she gestured with a trembling hand toward the double doors across the courtyard.
"If you would, Commander, Lady Surian, Miss Allora, we have a private chamber prepared.
Far more secluded." Her eyes darted toward the crowd now gathering beyond the glass, onlookers whispering behind jeweled fans and half-empty wine goblets.
"Please," she added, voice almost pleading.
Dariose inclined his head and offered Surian his arm again.
This time, she took it without complaint, too relieved to protest. Malec, still holding Allora like a living trophy, didn't so much as blink at the staring patrons as he carried her across the threshold.
He looked almost proud, like this chaos was precisely what he'd hoped for.
Once inside the chamber, a lofty sunlit room draped in rose silks and pale golden gauze with walls lined with mirrored panels, he finally set her down. But not right away. Allora kicked her feet, her voice rising. "Malec, I swear, let me?—"
He dipped his head, brushing his mouth over her temple. "Don't forget," he murmured, low enough that only she heard, "the stipulations you agreed to last night."
She went still, her breath catching.
"I'm owed my due," he added, the words like velvet wrapping steel.
Allora groaned, her glare pointed enough to slice him in half. "You manipulative bastard," she snapped.
He smiled slowly, a predator's satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But you're still mine."
Before she could twist away, he kissed her. Firm and claiming, the kind of kiss meant to remind her exactly who had the upper hand. She made a muffled sound of protest and pushed weakly at his chest, but when his tongue brushed hers, she sighed. Just once. Then surrendered completely.
Only then did he ease back, their breath mingling, his thumb brushing her cheek.
"There," he said softly. "Now you can go."
She shoved him hard, but he barely rocked back a step, laughter low in his throat as she stalked past him to the seamstress waiting with wide, stunned eyes.
Malec lowered himself into the nearest settee, one ankle propped over his knee, and watched her go. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every flick of her hand and swish of her skirts.
"I want no more interruptions," he said without looking up. "If anyone enters this room uninvited, they answer to me."
The Madam nodded quickly, bobbing a nervous curtsey before she closed the door behind her.
The rest of the appointment passed with unexpected calm, at least by their standards.
After the whirlwind of fruit missiles and social casualties, Dariose had the good sense to apologize. He bowed to Commander Malec, then to Surian, and finally to Allora herself with the flourish of a born showman, a smirk lurking under the contrition.
"I'd like to return tomorrow, if I may, to offer a more formal apology, Lady Surian."
Surian gave a weary wave of her hand. "That's not necessary."
"Oh, but it is," Dariose insisted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "I'll bring flowers. Or alcohol. Or both, depending how the evening goes."
From somewhere in the hall beyond, a shrill shriek echoed. His sister, no doubt still railing against her public dethroning by a supposedly docile Canariae.
Dariose sighed, the sound so theatrical it could have earned applause. "Alas. The banshee calls." He paused at the door, casting a final glance over his shoulder. "Wish I could stay."
Then he disappeared into the corridor, leaving only the faint notes of amusement in his wake.
Malec exhaled slowly and sank back into the settee, one leg crossed over the other, his finger tapping his jaw in thought. He'd retreated into the same calculating calm that commanded armies, rattled courts, and conquered half a continent.
"No pink," he instructed the seamstress, his voice a velvety blade. "No pastels. Jewel tones: sapphire, garnet, obsidian. Velvet if the weather permits, silk otherwise. Nothing frivolous."
The seamstress scribbled frantic notes, nodding so hard her hair ornaments trembled.