8. The Unwelcome Guests #5
The three women bowed low. Kirelle straightened last, her brilliant smile flashing as she turned her gaze to Surian. "Will you show us her room?"
Surian hesitated only a moment before answering, her unease flickering beneath her composure. "Of course." She gestured gracefully, though her eyes darted to Malec as if to warn him not to interfere.
He stepped forward instinctively, but Surian pressed a hand against his chest, firm, holding him back. "Enough," she whispered. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but he did not follow.
As Surian led the three women upstairs, the room went tense again. Luko leaned in his chair, scoffing, his cup of tea dangling from his fingers. "They're most definitely up to something."
Malec’s eyes stayed locked on the stairwell, his expression like carved stone. "Perhaps," he said at last. "But if they can bring her down… if they can get her to eat… then I will overlook their plans. Anything, to get her out of that room."
Allora lay sprawled across the bed, her cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes fixed on the narrow strip of sky beyond the barred window.
She wondered idly how long it would take for her body to eat itself if she simply stopped.
Starvation had a cruel sort of appeal. At least then, she would decide when it ended.
The food they brought her only turned her stomach, the smells heavy and sour, making her nauseous.
She had been too afraid to leave the room, not because of Surion's hissed threats—he was a peacock puffing his feathers—but because of Malec.
If he grew too worried, he would drag her from this house back to that frozen wasteland of his.
Why couldn't he have a fortress in the Bahamas?
Or Hawaii? She pictured it bitterly: the ocean stretching wide, warm air wrapped around her skin, her dark body drinking sunlight.
She might have stayed there willingly, let herself get fat on mangoes and fresh bread, taken lovers by the tide.
That would have been heaven. But instead, he chained her to ice and snow, to a land where the sun was a myth and the only sound was wind gnawing at the walls.
She hadn't bathed in days. Her hair was a wild nest across her shoulders, and the same nightgown clung to her skin with the sourness of old sweat.
The stench didn't bother her. Her hair was a disaster.
Depression was a thick blanket over her, heavy and smothering, and she found herself almost wishing she would stop breathing altogether.
She was not built for confinement, not born to be someone's jewel or treasure or prize.
She had once been fire, fighting wars that mattered, searching for cures, clawing toward survival.
Now she was a kept woman, rotting behind locked doors.
Rolling onto her back, she groaned, muttering aloud. "Ugh, these pointed-eared devils are the worst." Even Surion's name on her tongue tasted sour. That smug bastard was no doubt plotting to make her life worse.
She sighed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe she should drag herself to the bathroom and at least wash her ass. But even that felt like too much effort. She was a hot mess.
A soft knock rattled her door. Allora groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. "Go away, I'm naked."
The door creaked open anyway, and Surian slipped in with her usual polished composure, though her eyes swept the room with a look adjacent to horror. "Allora," she said pointedly. "Look at you. Have you bathed at all this week? Are you planning to rot away in here?"
Moaning, Allora rolled over and buried her face into the pillow.
Her thick, coiled hair stuck out in wild, matted clumps, some sections tangled beyond reason, others flattened against her scalp where she'd laid for hours.
The curls were dry, desperately needing moisture and a comb she had no energy to pick up.
Surian sighed, long-suffering. "Get up. Dress yourself, you have guests."
"Tell them I'm dead," Allora muttered.
Before Surian could reply, the door pushed wider. Kirelle glided inside, one delicate hand pressed dramatically against her nose. Behind her trailed Lady Maren and Miss Avona, their eyes darting nervously about the chamber. Rolling her eyes at Kirelle's theatrics, Surian spoke dryly. "Really?"
Kirelle's smile was razor-bright. "I only wondered if the Canariae's malaise was contagious," she said sweetly, her tone dripping with false innocence.
That voice, that name, pulled Allora up short. She propped herself on her elbows, messy hair falling in her face. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Kirelle stepped further in, the other women flanking her.
"I've come to make amends. To see how you are faring.
" Her eyes slid across the chamber. The room itself was clean, meticulously so, but the heavy locks bolted on the door and the bars over the window betrayed the truth.
Guards stood just beyond the threshold. Kirelle's gaze flicked back to Allora, sharp and knowing.
She understood now what Allora had meant: a cage, different in form but the same in spirit.
Her eyes landed on the untouched plate near the window. "Why haven't you been eating?" she asked softly. "At least keep your strength."
Flopping back onto the bed, arms spread wide, Allora's tone came out flat. "Not what you think. Food just makes me want to throw up."
Surian moved closer, perching neatly on the edge of the mattress. Her voice was calm but firm. "You must eat. I'll have Luko look at you."
Waving her off, Allora replied, "Don't bother. I'm depressed, Surian. It happens. Don't get worked up."
Kirelle tilted her head, eyes gleaming, lips curling into that smile that never reached her eyes. "Are you sure, darling? Because you look as though you've gained weight since last I saw you."
Allora's head snapped toward her, voice heavy with sarcasm. "If you came here to apologize, then apologize and fuck off. I was in the middle of a very important staring contest with that water stain on the ceiling."
Kirelle’s smile remained fixed, though a calculating glint flickered behind her eyes. She turned to Surian with practiced grace. “Would you mind giving us a moment? Just the two of us. A private conversation might be more effective in coaxing our dear Allora out of her melancholy.”
Surian's expression hardened immediately, her pale icy blue eyes cutting to Kirelle with all the sharpness of a shiv drawn in warning.
Big sister mode activated in full force.
She rose slowly from the bed, her posture radiating protective menace despite her elegant appearance.
"Of course," she said, her tone glacial.
"But Kirelle, if I find out you've done anything to upset her further...
" She let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but crystal clear.
Kirelle dipped her head in acknowledgment, her smile never wavering. "I understand completely, Lady Surian."
Surian gestured to Lady Maren and Miss Avona, who followed her toward the door.
Before she stepped through, Surian paused, glancing back at Allora with a look that said I'm right outside if you need me, then at Kirelle with one that promised violence if she stepped out of line. The door clicked shut behind them.
The chatter died. Kirelle folded her hands delicately before her, her smile poised and pleasant, though her eyes glittered with deeper intent. “I had time to think,” she said smoothly, her words veiled, “about the encouraging things you told me at the banquet.”
The phrasing was light enough, harmless on the surface, but Allora heard the weight beneath it. This was not two women making amends. It was a reminder of whispered truths shared between captives, prey caged by different masters, each searching for cracks in their prison.
Rolling onto her side, Allora turned her tired face toward her. "Go on."
Kirelle inclined her head as if it were a peace offering. "Come downstairs with us. Eat. We can chat, get to know one another. Perhaps even walk in the garden. I hear you've not been outside in days."
Wrinkling her nose at the thought, suspicion plain in her expression, Allora groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body swayed, weak from hunger and days of idleness, and she braced herself against the mattress to steady herself.
"I'll do it," Allora murmured, voice low, "but on one condition."
Kirelle's perfect mouth curved into a huff, her patience straining. "And what is that?"
Narrowing her gaze, Allora chose her words carefully. "Even if I'm gone, if Malec takes me back north and Surian is left here, you must promise you'll never harass her again. No whispers or torments. Leave her alone, for good!"
With a discerning tilt of her head, Kirelle sighed, her tone idly dismissive. "Fine. I will no longer hold a grudge against Surian."
Quick as a blade, Allora's voice cut through the air. "I mean it, Kirelle. You go back on this, and I will tell Malec everything, EVERYTHING!"
Kirelle's composure cracked for just a moment as she snapped, "I would never go back on my word!"
Pushing past her, Allora crossed to the armoire.
She pulled free a velvet robe, deep blue, with the silver fox stitched bold upon its breast. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, cinched the belt tight around her waist. The fabric weighed heavier than she remembered.
Her hand paused at her stomach, the faint swell of flesh startling her.
Kirelle had been right. She had gained weight. What the hell?
Kirelle's gaze swept deliberately across the emblem, her smile returning, more edged this time. "How fitting," she remarked, her tone dripping with implication.
Allora looked down at the crest and then back at her, her dark eyes cutting like fire through glass. "If you want it so badly," she said evenly, "you can have it. But you'd better be ready for the shackles that come with it."