17. The Wound She Left #4
Inside him, something shifted. An old storm breaking loose.
Pregnant.
Not his.
Not his legacy. Not their blood.
Another male's. A Canariae's.
She had laid with another. Opened herself to another male, let him inside her body where only Malec belonged.
She had let him spill his seed, let him plant life in her womb while Malec tore himself apart searching for her.
She had shattered their Vash'telor, broken what was sacred, given herself to someone else.
The thought struck like a hammer, blanking his mind into a roaring void.
He didn't remember letting the parchment fall from his hand nor remembered reaching for the bronze ink bowl on the table.
He remembered the sound.
The bowl smashing into the floor, shattering in an explosion of metal and clay shards that rang through the tent like a war drum. Black ink sprayed across canvas and maps like arterial blood.
Then his fist followed, slamming into the war table with enough force to split the wood. Once. Twice. The crack echoed like breaking bones.
Kirelle stumbled backward, genuine fear breaking through her smug composure.
Surian flinched violently, a gasp tearing from her throat.
Luko moved fast, stepping in front of Surian, one arm out to shield her as his other hand reached cautiously toward Malec.
The air around Malec began to shimmer.
Sparks of raw magic crackled across his skin, blue-white and violent, bleeding from him in visible pulses.
Weeks of suppression, weeks of iron control forced down to keep himself functional, shattered in an instant.
The power erupted wild and lethal, making the brazier flames leap and roar, making the tent canvas ripple and strain against its moorings.
Malec pressed both hands hard against his face, chest heaving, his body trembling. A sound tore from his throat, raw and animal, somewhere between a roar and a sob.
Then his hands dropped. His voice came hoarse, torn open from somewhere feral. "That little whore!"
Surian's breath caught.
"She let another touch her and gave herself to one that is not ME!" His words were jagged, spitting like sparks. Each syllable dripped venom and betrayal.
He spun suddenly, his unbound hair whipping, and the look in his eyes froze everyone in the tent. They weren't Malec's eyes. They were something else. Feral, hollow, lit with madness that had finally consumed the last fragments of the man he'd been.
"She ran from me, drugged me, lied to me. And now?" His voice cracked, not with grief, but with rage so sharp it cut the air. "Now she's playing house with some nameless bastard, letting him put his hands on her? Letting him fuck what's mine?"
"Malec," Surian whispered, voice breaking, tears streaming down her face. "We don't even know if the letter is true. This could be another of Leira's lies?—"
He slammed both fists onto the table. The remaining map pins scattered like fleeing insects, clattering to the floor.
"She's with child," he roared, the sound shaking the tent poles. "That much is true!"
He jabbed a finger at the crumpled parchment on the ground as though it were gospel.
His breath came ragged, splintering the silence.
“That’s what I felt. That presence in the dreamscape, clinging to her like a parasite.
” His voice dropped lower, colder, darker.
“A psychic Canariae child growing inside her.”
His mind spiraled into violence. He would find her, find that bastard who dared taint his Vash’telor and tear him apart with his bare hands.
He would make Allora watch and would cut that abomination from her belly himself if he had to.
He would make her understand what she'd done, what she'd destroyed, what she'd thrown away.
The magic pulsed brighter, hotter, crackling like lightning about to strike.
He froze, his voice dropping low and cold as steel dragged across stone.
"And it's not mine..."
The atmosphere in the tent went suffocating.
"...so then it doesn't deserve to live."
"Malec—" Luko started, horror thick in his voice.
"She can watch me bury it!" Malec roared, the magic sparking violently. "She can watch me cut that bastard from her belly and bury it in the fucking ground!" His chest heaved, body shook. The magic continued to pulse and crack across his skin, wild and untethered. Then, suddenly, the fury drained.
Not gone. Just exhausted.
Malec collapsed forward and caught himself against the overturned table, both hands braced on the splintered wood. His head hung low between his shoulders, breathing came hard and ragged, each inhale shuddering through his frame.
He closed his eyes tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped beneath skin stretched too thin.
The pain settled in. Not the explosive rage, but a deeper poison that burrowed into his marrow and nested there.
Sweat dripped from his face, running down his jaw and neck, soaking into his collar.
His body trembled from exertion, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline.
Drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, slipping free to hang from his lower lip like a feral dog that had just torn prey apart.
But no tears. He would grieve later and now was not the time. Now was for planning. For hunting and reclaiming what had been stolen from him.
The tent fell silent save for the crackling brazier and Surian's muffled sobs.
Malec opened his eyes. They were empty. Hollow. The madness had distilled itself into a colder, more focused poison.
The last bit of sanity he'd held onto had evaporated.
All that remained was an angry, vengeful Awyan on a warpath to get his Canariae back by any means necessary, and destroy anyone who stood in his path.
Malec straightened slowly, wiping the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice came out flat, empty. "Get out."
Surian's tear-streaked face lifted. "Malec, please, you need to?—"
"Get. Out."
The words were soft, but they carried the weight of a threat. The temperature in the room seemed to drop with them.
Luko moved immediately. His hands found Surian's shoulders, gentle but firm, and he guided her toward the tent flap. She resisted for a heartbeat, opening her mouth to protest, but Luko's grip tightened slightly.
"Don't," he whispered low in her ear. "Not now. He'll turn on you."
Surian's breathing caught in her throat. She let herself be led, casting one last horrified glance back at her brother before Luko ushered her through the flap to escape Malec’s brutality.
The tent fell silent.
Only Malec and Kirelle remained.
Malec didn't turn to face her. His hands gripped the edge of the overturned table, knuckles split and bleeding, his breathing still ragged. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion.
"Take off your dress."
Kirelle's stomach dropped. The words were clinical, transactional.
No seduction just an order. Her hands trembled as she reached for the laces of her gown.
This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? What she'd bargained for.
What her family had demanded. She let the fabric slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.
Malec still didn't look at her. He began unlacing his trousers with mechanical precision, his face turned away.
Kirelle moved toward the narrow cot in the corner, the one where he slept. She sat on the edge, waiting.
"No."
The word stopped her cold.
Malec finally turned, and the emptiness in his eyes made her blood run cold. "Not where I dream."
He crossed to the overturned war table and righted it with one violent heave, the splintered wood groaning. Maps and pins scattered further. He didn't care.
"Here," he said flatly. "Bend over."
Kirelle's legs felt unsteady as she moved to the table. She positioned herself, palms flat against the scarred wood, and felt the cold air against her bare skin.
Malec stepped behind her. His hand came down on the back of her neck, pressing her face toward the table.
"I don't want to see your face," he said, his voice still that terrible monotone. "And if you ever tell her about this—if Allora ever learns what happened here—I will personally destroy you and your entire family. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Kirelle whispered, her voice cracking.
She heard him finish unlacing his trousers. Felt him position himself behind her.
This was consensual. She had asked for this. Demanded it.
So why did it feel like dying?
He entered her with no preamble, nothing gentle in it. Her hips caught the table's edge and pain cracked across her pelvis. Kirelle bit down hard on her lip, tasting copper.
Malec moved with mechanical brutality, each thrust driven by a force that had nothing to do with her. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place. His breathing came harsh and ragged behind her, but it wasn’t pleasure. It was broken.
She could feel his mind wasn't here. He was somewhere else entirely, seeing someone else. Punishing someone else.
This wasn't about her at all.
She was just a body, a debt being paid. A means to an end.
The realization settled over her like ice water: she had spent years chasing The Brilliant Commander, building him up in her mind as someone worthy of obsession. The Silver Fox. The untouchable Northern Prince. The prize that would elevate her family, secure her future, make her matter.
But this—this animal rutting behind her with dead eyes and a shattered mind—this was the reality.
There was no love here, no respect, not even desire.
Just cruelty and the stench of his unwashed body, the violence in his grip, the way he used her flesh to try and claw back some semblance of control over a world that had fractured him.
Would she want to bring his child into this world? Subject an innocent life to this?
No.
The answer came swift and certain.
Never.
Her family could find another path. Some other alliance. She was finished being their puppet, done chasing an Awyan who would never see her as anything more than a warm body to bury his rage in.
This wasn't worth dying for.