8. The Unwelcome Guests #6
Luko hummed low under his breath, some old native tune his mother used to sing while kneading bread.
It was the only way he could drown out the ceaseless rhythm of Malec's boots scarring the floor.
Back and forth, over and over, like the tick of an unrelenting clock.
He glanced at his oldest friend, pacing as if the walls themselves would close in on him if he dared stop.
"You know," Luko drawled at last, setting his cup down with a sigh, "you could really use a counsel. A philosopher, perhaps. Or a healer of the mind. Someone to help you sort out all those demons rattling around in your skull."
Malec stopped mid-stride and turned a look on him that said everything before his mouth did. "I have one," he bit out. "And she is starving herself."
Exhaling, exasperated, Luko rubbed his temple. "You can't rely on Allora to be your emotional support system, Malec. That's not healthy."
The commander's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "This from an Awyan who has yet to touch a female?"
Luko's mouth dropped open before he straightened, mock indignation lighting his face. "I am not a virgin, Malec. Don't take out your frustrations on me."
But Malec wasn't smirking. His pacing slowed, his voice carrying an edge that quelled even Luko's retort. "You cannot understand. Soulbinding is not some primal itch to scratch. It is an ache that gnaws at me, one that cannot be sated unless she is near. It is torture and you will never know it."
Wrinkling his nose, Luko leaned back, unimpressed.
"I can see why it's outlawed in half the known world.
Sounds miserable." He paused, then added with brutal honesty, "Though I suspect your particular temperament makes it worse.
You're already obsessive about everything, Malec.
Order, control, precision. I doubt other soulbound Awyans are quite this overbearing about it. "
Malec stopped suddenly, his boots rooted to the spot.
His gaze fixed on a point in the floorboards, his body rigid, eyes distant as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, stripped bare.
"It is miserable. Half the time, it is nothing but agony.
But then..." His breath caught, a softness crossing his face.
“When she smiles at me, it makes everything worthwhile. And when we make love…” His voice lowered, reverent.
“It feels as though our souls bind again each time. It is purely transcendent.”
Luko nearly choked on his tea. He slammed the cup down. "I did not need to know that."
A small, wolfish smile quirked Malec's mouth. "You will never know it. So keep your opinions to yourself."
Before Luko could fire back, the room shifted. The air changed.
The entourage of Awyan women glided through the doorway like a tide rolling in, Kirelle at the front, her smile beaming as though she had accomplished the impossible. But Malec didn't even glance at her. His gaze struck like lightning, finding only Allora.
She stood in the velvet robe, his robe, the silver fox stitched bold across her breast. Her thick hair had been hurried into a bun by Surian's deft hands, coils sticking out rebelliously.
Her shoulders slumped, her posture weary.
The brilliance of her dark skin seemed dulled, not from sickness, but from neglect, exhaustion pressing the life out of her glow.
Her eyes, usually edged enough to cut glass, looked flat, heavy with despair.
It shook him.
His expression hardened. He gave the barest nod, his eyes never leaving Allora.
Surian clapped her hands for the servants. "Set the table in the garden."
Allora shifted uncomfortably, standing in the robe with all eyes on her. She felt less like a guest and more like some barn animal dragged into a formal parlor for show. The shame of it burned in her chest, and her voice wavered as she muttered, "I am not ready. I need to bathe and to?—"
Malec stepped forward at once, cutting her off. His large hands caught hers, firm, grounding. "You must eat," he said, his voice low but urgent. "You are weak."
Shaking her head, frustration shifted in her eyes. "I can't. Everything smells rotten. It makes me sick."
Luko pushed to his feet, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "I'll examine you later," he offered lightly, though his gaze carried concern.
Malec's grip on her hands tightened, his voice rougher now. "Then I will have the kitchens prepare soup. My father's recipe. He made it for me when I was young and my stomach cramped. It will not sicken you."
His words weren't just an offer. They were a vow.
Allora sighed, weary. Even now, even in her half-starved haze, she couldn't so much as make a decision without the bossy commander hovering over her shoulder, dictating what she should do.
Normally she would have snapped, but the fight in her felt distant, unreachable.
Maybe she didn't have the energy or simply didn't care anymore. She didn’t quite know anymore.
So when he told her to eat, she nodded. And that was enough to light his face in satisfaction.
Malec slipped his arm around her waist, his other hand clasping hers as though she might break apart without him.
His grip was gentle but steady, guiding her out into the garden with a reverence that only made her roll her eyes internally.
To him she was fragile, delicate, precious.
He noted the way her lips looked cracked, her dark skin lacking its usual glow.
Instead of correcting her, for once he tempered his urge to command.
His voice was soft, almost careful. "Would you like something to drink while we wait? "
"Yes," she muttered. "Cold water."
He led her to the table already set under the trees, the breeze carrying the faint perfume of flowers. He pulled a cushion from one of the chairs and fluffed it up before guiding her down onto it. Then, without another word, he turned and strode quickly back into the house to fetch what she needed.
Kirelle's smile turned feline as she watched him go. "I didn't realize the commander was so… fussy over his Canariae. You must feel like a queen, Allora."
Snorting, Allora leaned back in her chair, her sarcasm biting. "I am not that bitch."
The three Awyan women blinked, taken aback, clearly not understanding.
Allora elaborated, her voice firm. "That's fine if you're into it, crowns and all. But me? I'm not a queen. I'm a soldier and a doctor. I belong in the dirt with the sick, not perched on a pillow like a doll."
Gasps broke around the table. The women stared, horrified or amused, she couldn't tell. To them, Canariae were pretty trinkets, not healers or fighters.
"There is no way that's true," Kirelle said quickly, her tone dismissive. "You can't expect us to believe that."
A grin twisted Allora's lips. "When I first met Malec, I drop-kicked him in the chest. Knocked his helmet clean off."
Delicate as ever, Surian gave a rare, musical laugh, her eyebrows shooting up as she leaned across the table. "No way. That's true?"
Sitting up a little straighter, pride sparking in her tired eyes, Allora glanced up as Malec returned, carrying a silver pitcher of water and a bowl of sliced fruit with a knife balanced neatly across the rim.
Setting them down before her, she pointed at him with a sly grin.
"Hear that, Malec? No one believes that I, Allora, am a soldier and can knock over Awyan warriors on my own. "
Malec set the pitcher down with deliberate care, the metal catching the light, and turned to face the table.
His eyes met Allora's with a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
"She did," he said, voice even but edged with pride.
"She drop-kicked me. Knocked the helm straight from my head.
And she bested me in a spar after, with her Canariae trickery.
" He almost laughed, a low sound in his throat, neither mocking nor condescending. It was amused. Proud.
The women at the table gasped again, though Surian only shook her head with a smile ghosting her lips, and Luko let out a bark of laughter.
But Malec was no longer concerned with their reactions.
His gaze stayed fixed on Allora, alive, breathing, speaking back to him.
That alone softened the taut lines in his shoulders.
At that moment, he cared for nothing else but her health and coaxing one more smile out of her.
He lowered himself into the chair at her side, setting the bowl of fruit before him. He placed the cup into her hands, steadying it as she grasped it. She raised it quickly, drinking as if she had been in a desert, water sliding down her throat in greedy gulps.
"Slow," he chided softly, his eyes narrowing. "Do not drown yourself."
She scowled faintly at him over the rim, but he ignored it. His hand reached for the knife, and he began slicing the fruit into thin slivers, just as he knew she preferred. Each slice was careful, precise, laid before her like an offering.
The three Awyan women across the table sat transfixed.
Awyan males were known for their devotion to their Vash'telor, protective and attentive, but there was a ferocity to Malec's care that was unmatched.
He did not do it for tradition's sake or for appearances.
He did it because he burned to, because every fiber of him was wired to tend to her, to feed her, to keep her alive.
It was devotion at its rawest, almost unbearable to watch.
And yet, for Allora, it was suffocating.
She did not want to be nursed or tended like a fragile doll.
Independence was her lifeblood, and this fussing, the careful slicing, felt like shackles dressed as kindness.
What she did not understand, what she refused to see, was that this was Malec's language of love.
His love. The only way he knew how to give it, and he gave it to no one else but her.