10. Obedience as Strategy #4
His hand caught hers, stilling her wicked torment, threading their fingers together so he could breathe, so he could speak without giving himself away.
"If I allow it," he murmured through clenched teeth, "you will swear to me, little dove.
You will behave. You will do as I say and never leave my sight. "
Her smile was sultry, lips glistening as she drew her tongue across them suggestively. She nodded, slow, promising and taunting in the same motion.
His blood turned molten. If they had been alone, he would have thrown her onto the table, scattered plates and goblets to the floor, and buried himself inside her.
The thought alone made him throb painfully against her captured hand.
But this was not the time nor the place.
And beneath it all, he still felt suspicion.
Her words from that morning echoed like poison.
She wanted to go out and socialize, to breathe.
She was plotting again, he could feel it.
He tried to pierce the tether, but all he felt was her excitement.
He lifted her hand from his lap and brought it to his mouth, threading his fingers into hers. His father's words rang in his mind again, and finally, he yielded. "If you promise me... I will take you."
Allora lit up, victory flashing behind her smile. She nodded, seductive, her lashes lowering as she whispered, "I promise. I won't leave. I'll return to you, Malec. No one can make me do otherwise."
Suspicion lingered, but her joy, whether real or feigned, pulled at him. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his chest warming despite himself. "Then, if it makes you smile, if it makes you happy, you may go. With me beside you."
Allora lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered, dark eyes gleaming.
His body softened into the embrace, arms circling her waist. For a brief moment he let himself revel in the lie that he had won her, that all it took was saying yes.
Across the table, Surian and Luko exchanged a look. Luko scoffed and sat back in his chair, running a hand down his face. "You two are exhausting," he muttered. "A wave that never stops crashing. If you don't figure it out soon, you'll kill each other."
Morning came in a blur. Servants darted through the halls, arms full of garments and trays, polishing boots and pressing fabric, rushing to ready the two Awyans and their troublesome Canariae for the tea party.
Allora and Surian were already locked in battle.
"You cannot wear trousers and boots!" Surian's voice rang shrill across the chamber. "It would break every protocol. You'll embarrass us all."
Allora stood with her arms crossed, chin high, dark curls wild about her shoulders. "I would look amazing in trousers. Better than half of these pompous men. I should wear a uniform like Malec's. Why shouldn't I? I’m a damn soldier, ya’know! I deserve it."
"You are not an Imperial employee," Surian snapped, her composure unraveling as her cheeks flushed. "You cannot dress as if you were! Why must you rebel at every turn?"
Malec appeared in the doorway, already dressed, gloves fitted tight, boots polished to a mirrored shine. He paused there, leaning against the frame, and smiled faintly. His sister and his feral little wife arguing over clothes as though preparing for battle. He found it amusing, almost sweet.
He stepped forward, boots clicking softly, and took Allora by the shoulders. Turning her to face him, he bent and kissed her forehead. His voice was a quiet command, iron beneath the velvet. "Wear the dress, dove. One that matches mine. Or we do not go."
Allora huffed, her mouth forming that petulant pout he both adored and despised. But she knew better than to push. If she wanted to get to Kirelle, to get what she needed to finally escape, she had to play along. She nodded, sullen but obedient.
Surian's lips curved in triumph as she produced the chosen gown, holding it aloft like a flag of victory. "This one," she said, smug as she guided Allora into it.
Malec leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching as Allora fussed and fumed.
He found himself enjoying the sight: his dark dove throwing a tantrum over fabric, his sister fussing like a governess.
His lips tugged upward in rare amusement.
He wanted them to arrive as a pair, to remind everyone in Caelistra that she was his.
He wore one of his formal uniforms: a navy coat with black accents, white piping edged with gold, the fabric hugging his tall frame, paired with tight black riding trousers and gleaming boots.
His pale hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, severe and immaculate.
Black suede gloves fit snug over his long fingers, completing the image of disciplined elegance.
Surian had chosen Allora's gown carefully. Velvet navy to echo his coat, with a daring V-neck that revealed more of Allora's bronze skin than she seemed comfortable with. Black gloves to mirror his own. Surian laced the back tightly, tugging hard. "You've gained girth since the tailor fitted this."
Allora whipped her head around, eyes blazing. "Not everyone can be a goddamn breadstick!"
Malec burst out laughing, a sudden, rare sound that filled the chamber. His Allora, always clawing, always fighting, never letting anyone's words cut her down without a slash in return.
"Behave," he said, though his grin betrayed him. He took her hands gently, slipping the black gloves over her fingers one at a time. The simple act was intimate, calming, as though binding her hands in his care.
At last, they were ready. A matched set of fox and flame, shield and rebel.
They found Luko in the sitting room, half-buried in a chair, a book already open across his knees. He waved them off with a lazy flick of his hand. "Enjoy your nobles and their tea. I'll stay here in peace, where no one shouts, huffs or threatens to murder a dressmaker."
Allora rolled her eyes. Surian stifled a laugh behind her gloved fingers. Malec only smirked, tugging his gloves tighter before leading them on.
The three of them stepped out together, descending the wide stone steps of the manor.
The carriage stood waiting at the gates, the Imperial driver straight-backed and solemn.
As they crossed the lawns, the morning air crisp and cool, Malec felt the weight of eyes on them already: neighbors, servants, distant travelers.
He was content for them to look. He wanted them to see his Vash'telor at his side, bound to him, dressed in his colors.
They climbed into the carriage, the doors shutting with a heavy thud. The horses stirred, and with a jerk the manor fell behind them, trees blurring past as they rolled toward the city.
Kirelle's family estate loomed like a palace, four times the size of Surian's modest manor.
The structure was dazzling white, but its architecture spoke a different language: an elegance touched by human influence.
Its high pitched roofs were shingled in black clay tiles that gleamed like polished stone, the walls veined with vines studded in bursts of manicured red and pink blossoms. The windows were tall, stained in floral mosaics that caught the sun and scattered it like jewels across the fa?ade.
Four stories at least, with balconies, doors, and windows everywhere, it stood proud, weightless, a kingdom all its own.
The carriage rattled down a long gravel drive that cut straight through a lawn so wide it might have housed three football fields with room to spare.
Every post along the way had been dressed with silk ribbons and lavish arrangements of fresh flowers.
Torches burned in the daylight, their flames flickering above the decorations like jewels of fire.
Allora's brows shot up. Damn. This bitch went all out. Kardashians of elves. No expense spared for her spectacle.
The lawns teemed with life. Awyan couples strolled arm in arm, their laughter soft and weightless, colorful birds flitting across the grass.
Not peacocks but strange zebra-striped creatures, their feathers streaked with brilliant yellows and reds.
Even the air smelled perfumed, a little too sweet, almost artificial.
Everything was so carefully manicured that Allora wondered if these people even used seasoning in their food.
Not that it mattered. She wasn't here for the party. She was here to get what she needed from Kirelle.
Beside her, Malec shifted. He had noticed the furrow of her brow, the intense focus that always meant she was plotting. His ash-light eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking, little dove?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Wondering what kind of food they'll serve." Not a lie, just not the truth either.
He chuckled, rich and low, and caught her hand, setting it firmly on his lap as though anchoring her there. "Remember to behave," he warned, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
She leaned back with a whine in her voice. "But what if Surian or I get bullied?"
His face hardened instantly, his grip tightening. "That will not happen. Not with me here. But if it does..." He tilted her chin up with one gloved finger, his eyes fierce and unyielding. "Tell me first. I will handle it."
She nodded softly, lips pressed tight, and his expression eased into a rare smile.
The carriage jolted to a halt. A footman stepped forward to open the door on Malec's side, but Malec waved him off with a flick of his gloved hand. No one else would touch her.
He stepped down first, turning with precision, and offered his hand. Helping Allora down from a carriage was, to him, the smallest but most satisfying of pleasures. She took his hand, her eyes never leaving his, a secret smile curving her lips.
It wasn't until her slippers touched the gravel that he remembered his sister. With a curt nod he offered his other hand, assisting Surian with equal gravity. Surian's brows rose in surprise, her lips parting as though she had never seen such chivalry from her brother.