Chapter 11 #2
Caelen stops mid-polish, his eyes snapping to me. He lets out a sharp, faux-offended gasp that echoes off the wooden rafters.
"Is that the same thing you wore last night, Malakai?
It seems as if a localized tornado occurred in the lower half of your wardrobe," Caelen says, tossing his polishing rag onto the bar with immense, dramatic flair.
"You are radiating a foul musk into my common room. It’s a sensory assault.
A literal assault on my senses. An Eelder entity shouldn't look like he was dragged backward through a hedge by a drunken minotaur. It kills the ambiance."
Ga’Rek chuckles half-heartedly, and Caelan narrows his eyes at my lackluster response.
I drop heavily onto an empty stool, my shadows pooling miserably around my boots.
"She called me a fool," I rumble, staring blankly into the dark liquid Caelen reluctantly pours for me.
"And then she fell asleep face first on the mattress.
I do not understand the mechanics of this...
of this idea of courtship. In the older cycles, one simply declared a match and secured the perimeter. "
"Secured the perimeter?" Caelen throws his hands in the air, his purple skin practically flushing with secondary irritation.
"You absolute idiot. Courtship is not a localized military checkpoint!
You don't conquer a woman; you construct a place she can be safe.
You have to think about her brain, Malakai! "
Ga’Rek lets out a deep, chest-rumbling orc chuckle, his sharp tusks catching the lamplight as he reaches over to pat my shoulder with agonizingly sweet, genuine sincerity.
"Don't listen to him, Malakai," Ga’Rek says, his rumbling voice incredibly gentle as he offers me a reassuring smile.
"Witches carry a lot of pressure, especially with everything that’s happening now.
Piper works so hard at her bakery, and all I do is try to make her day easier.
I carry the hundred-pound sacks of flour, I keep the ovens perfectly stoked, and when she's completely overwhelmed by the logistics, I fry up a massive plate of cheesy bacon potatoes and just let her vent until she feels safe.
You just have to be kind to your woman. Show her your strength is a shield, not a sword at her neck. "
The huge orc mimes cutting a throat, and I stare at him in horror.
Have I been a sword at her neck?!
"Exactly! Kindness, Malakai. It’s an actual concept," Caelen snaps, pointing a finger at me.
"Take my Wren for example. She spends twelve hours straight squinting through a loupe, manually carving raw gemstones and sorting mineral fractures until her shoulders are locked in a knot and she is ready to castrate me with a polishing wheel. Do I corner her? Do I demand her compliance? Only if she wants me to act like that.”
Ga’Rek groans in distaste as I blink in confusion.
“Otherwise? No. You have to ask about… her.
Figure out who she is beneath that fancy posture.
Remember what she likes, and more importantly, remember what she absolutely despises.
Bring her presents—high-quality presents, not whatever jagged obsidian rocks you dig up in your cave.
You be there the exact millisecond she needs you, and you vanish into the shadows the moment she wants to be left alone.
It's binary, Malakai. Presence and absence. Execute it."
“I don’t have a cave,” I tell him bemusedly.
An eight-foot orc warrior who moonlights as a bakery assistant and an Unseelie innkeeper are currently lecturing me on the romantic utility of flour sacks and gemstone management.
Back in my home plane, my word is law. Here, I am being instructed to handle a mortal duchess with the delicate care of a glassblower.
The absurdity of it is breathtaking—and the worst part? They are entirely correct.
"She has no experience with magic," I mutter, tracing a line through the condensation on my mug. "She looks at the keep as if it is a cage. Her family… they must have treated her like a political token."
Ga’Rek nods, his face full of genuine sympathy. "Then don't let her be a token, Malakai. You have to show her. Give her choices. Take her into the town square today. Let her pick out fabrics, let her buy things. Show you're just there to help her happiness… even if that means you have to fund it."
Caelan chuckles. “Take her to Wren’s if you really want to impress her. Women love jewelry, and Wren’s is the best.”
“Not all women love jewelry, Caelan.” Ga’Rek rolls his eyes.
“You’re right,” Caelan agrees. “Some prefer if you spread their legs wide and—”
“Enough,” I snarl, shadows crawling across the bar.
“He’s not talking about your witch, man, control yourself.” Ga’Rek stands, menace unmistakable.
"And for the love of the stars, fix yourself before she sees you," Caelen groans, practically twitching as he reaches across the bartop to violently poke at a loose strand of my hair. "If you try to court a duchess looking like the town drunk, I will personally bar you from my inn."
I offer the Fae a low, dangerous warning snarl, but my shadows track a sudden, distinct trail of golden warmth awakening upstairs, and the knot of tension beneath my ribs instantly tightens with anticipation.
"A day shopping," I repeat slowly. "I will purchase her whatever she likes. And perhaps a selection of Piper's pastries."
And I will do my level best not to think about spreading her legs and watching her come apart under my tongue.
"Now you're getting it," Caelen mutters, entirely self-satisfied as he picks his polishing rag back up. "Go put on some charm and normal clothes, Shadow King. And some soap, by the gods."