19. Blood of Two Worlds #2
Malec was on his feet in an instant, crossing to the bed.
The noise of the room faded to nothing. At this moment in time he didn't care about the baby in Luko's arms or the crowd rejoicing over the little miracle he had helped produce.
All he could see was Allora, limp and unconscious, her dark skin ashen, her lips cracked and bloodless.
"What do you need?" His voice came out rough, urgent.
Kalemon looked up at him, her expression hard.
"Your blood, badly. Whatever you did before to give her your magic blood, do it again.
I don't care how, just do it and blame it on me if anyone asks.
Then she will need to be bathed and bandaged," Kalemon continued, already gathering supplies.
"The bleeding has slowed but she's not stable. Move her carefully."
Malec didn't hesitate. He slid his arms beneath Allora's fragile body, lifting her against his chest. Sheets, blood, and all. Her head lolled into the hollow of his throat, her breath a whisper against his skin.
He turned toward the door.
That was when the congratulations began.
"Well done, Commander!"
A hand clapped on his shoulder as he passed. "You've made history, Talandros. First Awyan to sire a child with a Canariae!"
Another voice, smug and laughing. "A conquest worthy of song, eh? Broke through the impossible."
"Your bloodline will be legendary!"
The words felt like knives. Each one a reminder of what they thought this was. A conquest. A victory. A trophy. They had no idea what it had cost. Nor did they seem to understand what he had almost done. What she had suffered alone.
Malec's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He walked through them without acknowledging a single word, his arms locked around Allora's limp form, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Kalemon followed close behind, her satchel slung over her shoulder, already preparing the herbs and supplies she would need.
Behind them, the chamber erupted in celebration.
Leira stood beside Luko, tears streaming down her face as she gazed at her grandson. Her hand covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Surian wept openly, her face buried in her hands, overwhelmed by the miracle before her.
Luko cradled the baby carefully, his own tears falling as he whispered soft words to the tiny life in his arms.
But Surin remained perfectly still.
He stood in the doorway, his pale blue eyes tracking Malec's movement through the crowd. Watching his son carry the unconscious Canariae away. The way Malec held her, as though she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Surin's expression was unreadable, but his mind was calculating.
This changed everything. The first Awyan-Canariae child in history. The political ramifications alone would reshape kingdoms, redraw alliances, and rewrite centuries of assumed biological law.
And his son, the Silver Fox, had just become the center of it all.
Surin watched Malec's back disappear down the corridor, saw the way his composure had returned now that he had a purpose. A focus. His obsession back in his grasp. And now the father of a child of two worlds. The miracle that defied every law written in blood and history.
He wondered if this would save Malec.
Or destroy him completely.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth spilling across the chamber. Shadows danced along the thick stone walls, swaying in rhythm with the flickering light. The air was heavy with the scent of medicinal oils and warm linen, a fragile peace settling over the room.
Malec had bathed her himself.
Kalemon had stood watch, silent and vigilant, instructing him when necessary but mostly letting him work in quiet reverence.
He had lifted Allora's limp form into the copper tub with arms that trembled despite their strength, lowering her into water warmed with herbs that would soothe torn flesh and ease inflammation.
His hands moved with careful precision, washing away blood and sweat and the remnants of violence. He worked slowly, as though he were cleansing not only her skin but his own guilt. The cloth moved gently across her shoulders, down her arms, over the curve of her belly.
When he was finished, he wrapped her in a soft towel and carried her back to the bed.
Her hair came next.
He sectioned it carefully, just as she had shown him months ago in Caelistra when she'd laughed at his fumbling attempts.
He wet each section with clean water from a basin, then took up the wide-toothed comb Kalemon had provided.
Starting from the ends, he worked through the tangles with patient strokes, moving upward inch by inch until the curls began to spring free, soft and gleaming in the firelight.
It took time. His fingers were clumsy at first, but memory guided him.
He remembered the way she had tilted her head when a knot caught, the small sound of relief when it finally gave way.
Now she lay unconscious, her head resting limply against his hand as he worked, but he was gentle all the same.
He worked through every section until her hair fell in loose, damp spirals down her back.
Then Kalemon stepped forward.
"Her stomach needs to be dressed," she said quietly, gesturing to the supplies she'd laid out.
Malec hesitated, his gaze dropping to Allora's abdomen.
It was soft now, no longer taut and swollen. The skin hung loose and deflated, wrinkled where it had been stretched beyond measure. Dark lines marked her flesh, ribbons of silver and purple that traced the journey his son had made beneath her skin.
Stretch marks.
Proof that her body had been transformed, reshaped, claimed by the life she had carried.
Kalemon handed him a jar of thick, amber-colored balm. "Ancient Awyan remedy. It will speed the healing, reduce scarring. Apply it gently."
Malec took the jar, his hands steady now. He scooped the balm onto his fingers and began to smooth it across her belly with reverent care.
He wasn't disgusted, not even slightly deterred.
These marks were his. Her belly told the story of his blood, of the child she had shielded with her life when he had been too blind to see.
He traced each line with his fingertips, committing them to memory, worshiping the evidence of what she had endured.
When the balm was applied and her stomach wrapped in clean linen, he turned his attention back to her hair.
He braided it carefully, weaving the damp curls into a single thick plait that would keep them from tangling while she slept.
His fingers worked slowly, methodically, finding calm in the repetition.
Finally, he dressed her in a warm nightgown, soft cotton that would not chafe against her healing skin, and wrapped her in a thick woolen blanket lifting her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bed Kalemon had been sharing with her.
Clean sheets. Soft pillows. A fire burning low and steady in the hearth.
But it was no longer Allora and Kalemon's room.
It was theirs. His and Allora's. He laid her down carefully, tucking the blankets around her, making sure she was warm. Then he stood there, staring down at her sleeping form, and the weight of everything crashed over him.
All this time he had accused her of unfaithfulness. Had convinced himself she had betrayed their bond, given herself to another, chosen someone else over him.
But the truth was far uglier.
He was the unfaithful one.
Kirelle's body beneath his hands. The emptiness of it.
The cold, mechanical transaction born of rage and desperation.
It didn't matter that it was considered acceptable in Awyan society, that his people turned a blind eye to such things when their race was dwindling.
It didn't matter that he had felt nothing, wanted nothing from her or that it was a debt he owed in order to get back to Allora.
He had betrayed their bond.
And maybe everyone had been right, he was a monster. And Allora had just seen that truth in him and rightfully fled before he could destroy her completely.
Malec sank down onto the edge of the bed, his head falling into his hands.
What did this mean now? What did the future look like?
They had a child. The impossible made flesh. Did that change anything? Did it give him the right to keep her? Or did it only prove how dangerous he was to her?
Could he love her enough to let her go? To give her the freedom she had run so hard to find and trust that she might return to him on her own?
Or would he tighten his hold even more, chain her to him with the bond and the child and his desperate, selfish need to keep his family together?
He didn't know.
He was exhausted. His body ached, his mind felt scraped raw, and his eyes burned with the need for sleep. But the pain in his chest had eased. Because she was here. Her body was warm and breathing beside him and she was alive.
That was enough. For now, it was enough.
He had much to think about. Much to answer for and decisions to make that would shape all their lives.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he simply needed to be near her.
Malec stood and moved to the side of the room, stripping off the blood-soaked leathers and tunic he had worn through battle and birth.
His boots came off next, dropped heavily to the floor.
He stood bare for a moment, letting the warmth of the fire wash over his skin, then grabbed a thick woolen blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed.
He wrapped it around his waist and returned to her side.
Carefully, he lowered himself onto the bed, staying above the blankets that cocooned her.
He positioned himself on his side, mindful of her stomach and wounds, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body.
His arm slid gently across her shoulders, pulling her closer without disturbing her rest. He needed to feel her skin against his, needed to hear her breathing near his ear, needed the proof that she was real and alive and here.