8. The Unwelcome Guests #7
Still, she was too exhausted to fight it. And too worn down to snap at him or pull away. So she took the slices he offered, chewed mechanically, and let him hover. It was easier than arguing.
Luko, tired of watching the charged silence stretch too long, cleared his throat. "So," he said with exaggerated brightness, "the King's meetings. That's all anyone in the market's whispering about. Advisors coming and going, like ants crawling in and out of a nest. Anyone have theories?"
Lady Maren perked up immediately, her posture straightening as she leaned forward. "They say it may be tied to new trade routes, or perhaps a treaty," she suggested.
Miss Avona added quickly, eager to be included. "Or a war pact. My cousin swears it's military, though no one knows with whom."
The conversation drifted toward gossip and speculation, but Kirelle only pretended to listen.
Her lashes lowered, her head tilted as though considering their words, but her eyes kept sliding to the side.
To Malec and the way he leaned into Allora, the way his every action was shaped around her needs.
Her smile never wavered, but inside, her blood burned. This was what she was meant to have. This was the role her family had drilled into her since she was a child: to win him, to secure the Silver Fox, to command his affection. Watching him pour it into a Canariae was intolerable.
But Allora was already fraying, already pulling away from him. That was her opening. And Kirelle had never once failed to take what she set out to claim.
The late lunch was, at least on the surface, pleasant.
The sun was gentle, dappling the garden with shifting patches of light, and Allora found herself breathing easier under the open sky.
She didn't speak much; her voice felt locked behind her teeth, her body too tired, too filthy.
The heat of shame clung to her skin more than the velvet robe, reminding her she had not bathed, reminding her she was not herself.
Kirelle, all smiles and careful prodding, tried to ease the conversation toward her.
Allora could feel the pointed attempts, the subtle nudges.
Kirelle was angling for time alone. Allora, sly in her own way, sidestepped.
She folded Malec into the conversation instead, dragging him in with deliberate questions that steered toward Kirelle's bait.
He only answered because it pleased her, because her lips had shaped the invitation. And once he began, the hook was set.
Kirelle discovered quickly what caught his attention: Allora herself, and the strategies of war.
Topics Kirelle could maneuver around with practiced ease, thanks to a family steeped in military service.
Malec's weathered sandstone eyes sharpened with focus, his voice deepening as he leaned into the subject.
Tactics, supply lines, terrain—his obsessions unfurled, precise and relentless.
Allora smiled faintly and withdrew, folding her stillness into the garden air.
It was a dirty trick, but worth it. A few precious minutes of non-hovering, of his body angled toward someone else.
The food arrived. Malec coaxed and commanded until she lifted the spoon to her lips.
The soup smelled strange, thick with herbs she didn't recognize, and her stomach turned violently at the first whiff.
She braced for nausea, but he urged her on, his voice steady, promising it was good for her stomach.
She tried it and blinked in surprise. It was delicious.
Warm, soothing. She ate until the bowl was empty, her body loosening as the ache in her gut finally eased.
She hated him for being right. She shot him a smoldering glare, but he only winked in reply, smug and playful, before turning back to Kirelle.
The group carried on, voices mingling in a rare ease, but Allora's energy waned.
A wave of dizziness settled over her, heavy and strange.
She didn't feel sick, not exactly. Just drained, as if her very marrow were being pulled from her bones.
She rose slowly, pushing back her chair, and the world swayed with her.
Malec was at her side instantly, his body a shield, his hand steadying her elbow. "Allora," his voice cut through the chatter, taut with concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Her words slurred faintly. "I feel… tired. Dizzy. Maybe…" Her brow furrowed. "Maybe my period. I've lost track."
He took her hand, large and warm around hers, and pulled her to him despite her weak protests. "Hush," he murmured, voice softened into a sweetness few ever heard. "Enough. I'll take you inside."
She obeyed, letting herself fold against him.
He picked her up and carried her back into the house, the air cooling as the sun slipped toward dusk, the others trailing behind like shadows.
In the grand parlor, he lowered her onto a lush couch, careful as if she were spun glass.
He tucked the robe around her shoulders, smoothing the fabric, fixing her as though comfort itself could be armor.
Then he left, striding swiftly to fetch more water.
As the entourage drifted into the hall, voices light and meaningless, Kirelle rose gracefully from her seat.
She clasped her hands before her, her smile warm and inviting as she addressed the room.
"Lady Surian, Allora," she began, her tone bright with false generosity, "I would be honored if you would both attend a tea party at my estate.
A small gathering, nothing grand. I thought it might be a lovely opportunity to continue making amends with the Talandros family. "
The room went still.
Surian's pale blue eyes flicked to her brother, uncertainty flickering across her face. Luko shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in his cup. Allora, slumped against the cushions, blinked slowly, too tired to fully process the invitation.
Malec went still. His posture did not change, but a cold, stark focus settled over him.
His blanched eyes cut to Kirelle, assessing.
When he spoke, his voice was polite yet firm, each word carefully measured.
"That is a kind gesture, Lady Kirelle. However, Allora's health is not exactly up to par for her to attend gatherings at this time. I will think about it."
Kirelle’s smile never wavered, though a glimpse of calculation passed through her eyes. “Of course, Commander. I understand completely. The invitation stands whenever she is well enough.” She dipped her head gracefully, the picture of understanding.
But Allora caught the look in her eyes. The message was clear: this was the plan. The tea party was the opening. And Kirelle would be waiting.