5. Boundaries and Bargains #10
Surian sat in a nearby chair, her posture perfect but her gaze distant, dimmed in that brittle way someone grows when old ghosts slip in uninvited.
Allora caught it immediately. Still standing among the bolts of fabric, her measuring tape draped around her shoulders like a general's sash, she tilted her head and asked softly, "What's wrong? "
Surian didn't look up right away. When she did, her smile was tight. "I ruined your first outing."
"No, you didn't," Allora said firmly, frowning.
"I did." Surian's hands smoothed her skirts, needlessly fussing. "I walked us straight into those spiteful Awyans. They've always hated me. You could've had a peaceful afternoon, maybe even a little happiness."
Allora placed her hands on her hips, her chin rising with sudden, irreverent fire. "Surian. I live for confrontation. If it weren't for that fruit fight, I'd have died of boredom."
A startled laugh broke out of Surian's throat, bright and watery. She lifted a hand to dab beneath her eye, her breath unsteady. "You are truly a wild beast."
"All in a day's work," Allora declared, flicking her braid over her shoulder like she was posing for a painting.
Malec, who had been listening with that wry amusement only he could summon, leaned just far enough back to fix his sister with a pointed look. "You're lucky to have a rabid Canariae guarding your honor."
Surian burst into real laughter then, unguarded and clear, and for a fleeting moment, the air felt easy again.
But of course, it couldn't last.
Whack.
A small round object pinged off Malec's cheek, narrowly missing his eye. He blinked. Allora stood beside the button tray, arms folded across her chest, already plucking up another projectile with deliberate menace.
"Don't conspire behind my back," she called sweetly. "You beautiful tyrants."
Malec gave her a look that could have curdled cream. "You just threw a button at me."
"You're lucky it wasn't a candlestick."
He sighed, long-suffering. "This is the Capitol, Allora. Not a tavern brawl."
She ignored him, pivoting instead to the seamstress, who looked very much like she'd prefer to faint.
"While you're taking measurements," Allora began breezily, "I'd like to request a few sets of trousers. And some tunics, loose ones. Comfortable material nothing scratchy or made of that wool from those weird goats you have. The kind you can actually breathe in."
The seamstress made a strangled noise, her quill nearly snapping in her grip.
Malec's head turned slowly. "Trousers?"
His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but the warning in it could have frozen fire.
Allora lifted her chin. "Yes. Trousers. You know, the practical garments that allow for full range of motion and?—"
"No." The word came out flat and final.
"But—"
"Allora." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his sun-warmed amber eyes locked on hers with laser focus.
"I have been extraordinarily patient with you today.
I allowed you to assault a noblewoman with fruit.
I carried you through a public establishment like a sack of grain.
I even let you throw a button at my face.
" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous.
"But if you mention trousers one more time, I will burn every pair in this establishment and salt the earth where they stood. "
Surian made a choking sound somewhere between horror and laughter.
The seamstress had gone completely pale.
Allora stared at him, weighing her options. Then, with the defiant tilt of someone who knew exactly how far to push, she opened her mouth. "But what about?—"
"Not. One. More. Word."
She snapped her mouth shut, glaring daggers at him.
Malec settled back into his seat with the satisfaction of someone who'd just won a battle. "The only tunics you'll wear are mine. And even those will be rare occasions."
Surian slapped a hand over her face with a groan that came straight from the soul. “Can you please,” she hissed between her fingers, “just carry yourself properly for one afternoon?” She turned apologetic eyes on the seamstress. “Forgive her. Truly. She was raised by wolves.”
Malec had the audacity to look amused at Surian's lament.
In fact, he looked downright charmed, as if the image of Allora being reared by a wild she-wolf was the best explanation he'd ever heard for her particular brand of ferocity.
His mouth quirked upward at the corners, a dangerous little smile that said he liked that idea far too much.
To their collective surprise, the seamstress, who had looked one startled breath away from collapse, actually smiled.
Her lined face softened. "It's quite alright, Lady Surian," she said warmly.
"I think it's refreshing. Too quiet in here most days.
" She set down her quill and gestured for Allora to raise her arms again.
"Besides, no one ever remembers the boring clients. "
Surian let out a little sigh of relief, and even Malec's stern posture eased by a fraction.
But then, as the seamstress began gently measuring the span of Allora's shoulders, it hit him without warning. A twinge — jarring, invisible — a tug behind his breastbone, like a thread pulled suddenly taut.
The Soul-tether.
His gaze locked immediately to her face, every sense narrowing on her alone.
Allora stood still, her hands lifted obediently, expression impassive.
But he caught it. The faintest tremor in her fingers.
That’s when the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing down with unspoken weight.
The tremor was unmistakable. He had seen it before when her fever nearly took her, when she pushed herself past the point of collapse.
Before he could call out, she moved first, dropping her arms quickly to her sides. "Sorry," she said too brightly, avoiding his eye. "My arms are tired, it's been a long day." She waved her hand like it was nothing. "Just give me a second."
But Malec didn’t buy it. He pushed off the settee and crossed to her side, positioning himself close enough to crowd her as the seamstress worked.
The lightness drained from the room. His posture changed, coiling with predatory focus.
"What's the matter?" he asked, his voice a deceptively soft rumble that carried the weight of command.
Allora didn't turn to look at him. She reached for a bolt of fabric instead, smoothing it with deliberate nonchalance.
"Nothing," she said evenly. "If you must know," she flicked her gaze up at last, irritation flaring like a struck match, "I'd like you to stop hanging over my shoulder like a buzzard. Give me some space."
Surian pressed her lips together, clearly bracing for the inevitable.
Malec exhaled slowly, measured, but he leaned back a step. He made no move to leave the chamber entirely. His focus never left her, tracking every shift as if waiting for the smallest slip.
"Fine," he murmured. "But I'm not going far."
He folded his arms, settling himself into a posture that looked deceptively relaxed and patient.
Ever-present. And ever up her ass.
Allora didn't say another word. She turned back to the seamstress, forcing her hands to still even as her pulse thundered.
But the tether whispered to him. Instinct prickled.
She held herself too carefully. The brightness in her voice rang slightly false, and her arms dropped too quickly when the tremor began.
He filed it away, cataloging each detail with the precision of a strategist reading a battlefield.
She could deflect all she wanted. He would watch.
And when whatever was happening revealed itself, he would be ready. It didn't matter how much space he gave her. Malec was always there. In her periphery.
And part of her, though she'd never admit it aloud, was comforted by it.